Dachau
by Tai Ru Kaerisato
Summary: It's the year 1938. The civil unrests invade the German territory. It's in one of those when Christa Renz is captured by the forces of the Third Reich and is taken away to Dachau, a concentration camp in which she meets the only person who could keep her safe. [YmirxChrista AU]. [Translated from Spanish to English].
1. Prologue

**A/N:** This is not my story! This story rightfully belongs to Jayne Stark and it'scalled by the name Dachau. I decided that it would be a great idea to share this wonderful story with the English-speaking community.

Original author: Jayne Stark

Original language: Spanish

Translated by: Me

**Disclaimer:** Shingeki no Kyojin belongs to Hajime Isayama!

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**- Dachau -**

**Prologue**

_Why me?_

For the past few hours she had been asking herself this over and over; one for each jump of the unusable vehicle, one for each sob in her surroundings, one for her own faltering gasps. Her mind, normally filled with kindness and understanding, sinks into an endless seaquake of distress, diligently representing in two words;

_Why me?_

She keeps her head down even though, in such thick darkness, her vision remains useless. She plays with her fingers, hoping that with this she would be able to refrain her mind from wandering elsewhere.

All around her she hears people praying in low, choked whispers and she, more driven by inertia than by faith, does it too.

_Why me?_

She touches her face, maybe trying to infuse worth in herself through the dark spot that covers her left eye, matching with the split lip that has begun to heal.

She isn't dumb, she knows that in comparison to the horrors of her chaotic flight, a few bruises on her face were, in fact, a benevolent punishment or even equivalent to a gentle touch.

She feels like crying but it's impossible, she already used up all of her tears; she remembers all of them, children, women, elderly, all trying to flee from the pandemonium, all falling one after another.

Marco, a boy she knew, was one of them...

_Why him? _She wonders unconsciously.

She stops playing with her fingers seeing that at this point any form of distraction is useless.

While emitting dry sobs, a part of her, perhaps her darkest part, wonders whether all of this is worth it; she nods in the darkness without a second thought, it was all worth it.

She thinks about her father (or rather, the one she uses to call ''father''), she thinks about her friend Sasha, from whom she hasn't heard, she thinks about herself and about what she will do once the freight truck comes to a stop.

She starts trembling; but she doesn't feel fear. Fear has been with her since the moment the door of her house had been demolished; whatever fear is, has merged in her being. She doesn't feel fear. All of her is fear.

''Get off, trash!'' She didn't feel the truck come to a halt, she didn't feel her tightly shut eyes until she felt obliged to open them up. ''Didn't you hear me? I said get off!''

Nobody moves, only she has enough will to take a look at her surroundings and wonder what's going on. With difficulty, her eyes start getting used to the dim light. She fixes a lock of her blonde hair and she rests her blue orbs on the soldier.

He's blonde and has sharp features, his hands tremble against his own will.

She knows him, she remembers him. He was the one who separated her from those civilian men who were attacking her on the streets. If he hadn't arrived on time, they would have probably done so much more to her.

She swallows and, with a bit of relief, prepares to face him.

Her legs are trembling. With her small stature she manages to pass between the prisoners; the soldier, who looks away once he recognizes her, helps her to get off the truck, perhaps a bit abrupt but not without some paradoxical gentleness that manages to disconcert her.

Once she lets go of the man's trembling hand, she begins to follow the indicated path towards the formation of prisoners.

All eyes are fixed on her back, on her face and on her chest. some leering, others just curious. She hears the excited whispers of the soldiers and, through intuition, knows that they're talking about her.

All those whispers scare her and make her feel uncomfortable. She has always been very beautiful. She wonders if it's because of her fully Aryan traits, or because of the fact that she isn't Jewish, which attracts the men's gazes who guard the infamous labor camp of Dachau.

It's the year 1938. The National Socialist regime, led by Adolf Hitler, takes force and the civil riots in defense of German supremacy begin to be managed. It's in one of those riots, which later would become known as _Kristallnacht_, where she, Christa Renz, citizen of the German Empire, is captured by the forces of the Third Reich.

Christa turns around after hearing a sound. An impatient soldier dragged an elderly out of the freight vehicle, the latter by being unable to stand, fell sideways to the ground amid a huge crunch.

She thinks about running, she thinks about helping him out immediately, but that one soldier, the one who seemed to have a special sort of sympathy towards her, holds her back by her arm with force, almost hurting her.

''Don't forget why you're here.'' He whispers carefully. She nods and wipes away the tears of which she believed she couldn't shed anymore.

He's right. The impulse to defend the indefensible had dragged her to this prison, her habit of worrying about others had negated her all of her racial privileges; but they didn't misunderstand, she didn't regret anything, that's what Christa Renz was like.

_A goddess willing to sacrifice herself for her faithful - _That's what Sasha had called her, after she had convinced Mr. Braus that it had been her, and not his gluttonous daughter, who had devoured the pieces of bread who were intended to be their dinner of the following three days.

Helping others out and disregarding her own wellbeing, that's what the goddess was like.

Including now, in that unfortunate situation, the goddess worries about her faithful.

She looks back secretly. She knows the old man, with just one look she's able to recognize this man as one of her neighbours, a retired teacher, German-born and Jewish by conviction. Her soul hurts after each blow that lands on the old man and, before everything gets worse, she decides that she should take action again.

She squeezes the fabric of her white shirt trying to find the value that she's lacking, in her eyes there's an air of boldness that only appears occasionally. She observes the troops around her, the soldier on her side and then she sees a chance.

_What would happen if, perhaps, she grabs the gun of the distracted man who's guiding her? Of course, they'd kill her immediately, but that wasn't of importance._

Would she give the prisoners enough time to escape? Possibly it would, possibly not, but the fastest ones would certainly manage to seeing as, once you put one foot outside of the resort, there would be a lot of places to hide.

She slides her hand towards the man's gun, nobody sees her, drops of sweat run down her forehead, she touches the metal and thinks that it will all end soon...

But then, the old man's head explodes.

The uniforms of the soldiers surrounding the old man are impregnated with blood and small gray pieces that make Christa gasp in horror; the Jewish prisoners scream desperately while they search for a place to hide to protect them against the bullets.

Renz backs away, the determined look with which she shaped her plans breaks down and in its place appears a look of panic and anxiety, she falls to her knees and starts trembling, observing the bloody remains of what used to be a sweet old man.

She doesn't feel the steps behind her, she doesn't feel the unknown arm encircling her waist, lifting her to her feet and, of course, she doesn't feel the barrel of the gun until it touches her skin.

She feels something wet touching her ear (she supposes it's a tongue), a chill runs through her body through her spine.

''Oh...'' She hears behind her, ''your prisoners are interesting, Reiner.'' A hand covered by a leather glove caresses her belly, the gun moving from her temple to her cheek, ''having the guts to steal the gun of an SS soldier isn't something usual...''

The voice is hoarse and powerful, poignant and malicious unlike any she had ever heard before. It's difficult for her to relate such an ambiguous sound to a certain gender, so judging from this person's actions, she assumes that it's a male, perhaps a young militant with airs of greatness.

''What are you even saying?'' Reiner, the gentile soldier, clicks his tongue in annoyance. Christa sends him a pleading look while the soldier behind her draws small circles on her cheek with the barrel of the gun. Luckily for her, the gun leaves its post to point at him, at Reiner, more like a distracted gesture than a real threat.

The place it was pointing at was obvious: the case of his gun.

''See any difference, idiot?'' Yes, even she notices it, in her attempt to steal the object, she had left it slightly but also notoriously outside of its original place. She feels the cold sweat run down her face while the hand that was resting on her belly starts to go up her body very slowly.

Suddenly, that hand grabs her left breast, it molds and squeezes it hard, with such force that Renz's innocence led her to believe that the goal of all this was to brutally tear it out.

''Next time, Reiner,'' he says scathingly without letting go of her breasts, ''pay more attention to her hands than to her breasts, or the high brass won't be content with you.''

Before the man has any chance to reply, the soldier with scathing voice takes the young blonde by the arm and forces her to follow him.

She walks behind him (or what she supposes is a ''him''), he walks with huge strides with which she can barely keep up. She observes him more carefully, he's tall and slender, with slightly brown hair in a hairclip.

Her breasts are still hurting and, the mere thought of those men who had tried to assault her on the day of her capture, causes an overwhelming horror to shatter her composure.

Tears start falling down her cheeks; she doesn't want to weep, she doesn't want to draw his attention. She's afraid, more than she was a while ago while she was immersed in the dark pleading to a god she doesn't believe in.

It's that abnormal fear which forces her to let out a sound that hits her own ears like a death sentence.

The stranger stops, she, filled with horror, also stops; she shuts her eyes tightly, she hears the small sounds being caused by the rubbing of the fabric, which indicates that the stranger is turning around to face her.

''Look at me,'' a hand covered by a leather glove lifts her chin carefully. It's the rhythmic breathing, so close to her, that causes her to obey. ''Well done...''

Those brown orbs stare at her fixedly. Inadvertently, her tears stop running, another hand wipes away the traces of tears on her cheeks; she feels an emphasis on that area of her left eye darker than the rest of her skin. She sees a small smile on that cold face covered with freckles, the understanding that she discovers in that gesture exceeds all of her expectations. For a moment, while those feelings merge with her being, she feels the need to return the smile.

But that's too much and this she knows.

''Ymir!'' She hears Reiner yell out and, immediately, the calming face that she observes turns into that cold mask that had been responsible for pulling the trigger of the gun, and that had rested the gun on her temple. ''What are you going to do to her?''

Their eyes meet again, but those brown orbs staring down at her are different from before. It's the look of a soldier. When she sees the swastika on his left arm, Christa Renz realizes that, without having said a word, her fate was sealed, for better or for worse.

Ymir smiles.

''Whatever the Führer wishes for...''


	2. Words

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin © Hajime Isayama / Dachau © Jayne Stark

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**Chapter I - Words**

Words rise on the top. Above anything. Above all. Nobody can deny them. Nobody can ignore them.

_Work will set you free_. She repeats it like a mantra in a desperate attempt to turn such a useless thought into something physical.

She wants to believe that it's true. She wants to believe that those men, who work from sunrise to sunset, will someday wake up without fear and without death.

She wants to believe, she really wants to.

But that never-ceasing pressure on her left arm manages to clip the wings that her childish faith created, returning her, unnoticed, back to the sad reality. Her reality.

Just one look around is enough to tell what her fate is. To work or death, there's no freedom. Freedom is just a word, just as useless and ethereal as all other.

''Aren't you going to say anything?'' Ymir asks, waking her up from her reverie. Minutes have passed, but the memory of an old freight truck covered in the blood of an old man seems fuzzy and distant.

She doesn't talk. She's unable to. She doesn't remember the sound of her own voice. She doesn't remember a word. She opens her mouth, but only dry sobs and clumsy gasps escape from her mouth. She knows that those distressing sounds make her captor smile.

She looks around. The buildings of the complex rise to all directions, precarious, horrible, torturous, they smell of smoke and burnt flesh.

She doesn't wish to think. She lowers her gaze looking for some sort of distraction, she ends up counting the cracks on the floor with the hope of entertaining her trajectory or, at least, to prevent her from looking into the brown eyes who watch her from time to time.

''Did you get your tongue bitten off, squirt?'' He walks quickly, so much that it's impossible for her to keep up with him; his grip is strong, so strong that it's impossible for her to resist. The goddess stumbles, but the march increases, creating a ridiculous spectacle of sadism where she's the main star.

Her eyes never leave the ground; the large cracks gradually disappear leading to a clean and uniform path. Walking is incredibly easy now, so easy that she starts to wonder whether that battered floor has been designed as a method of subtle torture. Driven by curiosity, Christa looks up, careful not to meet the malicious look of who now seems more like a guide than a captor.

The building looks different, despite being relatively close to the space for prisoners; it's white and clean, preceded by a large square in the front area. All sorts of men cross its threshold; all masterfully wrapped in brown, black and gray uniforms.

_''Heil!'' _The soldiers shout out the moment they pass by.

_''Heil Hitler!'' _Her guide replies. Renz timidly looks down while the greetings continue one after the other all around her; how much influence did this person have whom she had judged, mistakenly, for a presumptuous corporal? He's important, perhaps even more important than she could ever imagine.

Just after a couple of hallways they arrive at a place apart from the rest, a small office far away from all the others. The turn of a knob and the creak of a door cause the teen to tense up.

''Come in.'' It's not an invitation, Christa knows this.

Is this the same person who planned a mass escape just minutes ago?

Is she being selfish?

After she crosses the threshold, and before wiping off the sweat from her moist forehead, the door closes and her body gets trapped between a rock and a hard place; between the door and Ymir's body.

She feels a pair of hands on her sides, travelling from her shoulders to the folds of her skirt. He analyzes her. He tests her out. The faces of those men on the streets of Germany appear in her mind, she recalls the awkward touch of their hands, she recalls the ache on her lip, on her face...

Something in te environment triggers a memory, one of the many afternoons when the Braus family returned from their usual hunting. Christa used to wait for her friend Sasha on the main street. With a smile on her face and a potato in her hand. But that afternoon was different from the rest. On that occasion, the Braus caught some rabbits, dirty and battered, which father and daughter were carrying on their shoulders carelessly.

Once she saw them, Christa burst out crying.

One of the rabbits, the smallest one as she recalls, struggled from side to side, bleeding and struggling, until its strength didn't allow it to stay alive. Sasha needed some time to console her, and it took Christa quite a lot of time to be able to look her friend in the eyes again.

She begins to tremble wondering, as she fights for air, whether that one small and dying rabbit in Sasha's hands felt the same way as she does now, just thinking about it causes her breath to hitch in her throat and her blood to freeze.

''Look at me...'' Ymir whispers. She trembles, her legs grow weak and begin to sag.

''Look at me.'' He repeats firmly. Christa tries, she really tries, but a lump in her throat makes her choke and her muscles fail to react.

''Look at me!'' He grabs her face by force, her blue orbs, teary and blue, meet with the brown ones she fears so much, which watch her upset and angry. She can feel his breath, she can feel his body.

As they did before, Ymir's hands roam her face, her eyes, her lips.

She shuts her eyes tightly, diving into the safety that her eyelids offer her. She shuts herself out and, for the first time, manages to roam freely in her happy years. She remembers Sasha, she remembers her friends and she remembers her home.

Bad mistake.

Suddenly, without warning, an ache on her lower lip brings her, again and with more force, back to her reality. A cry chokes in her throat.

Ymir traps her lower lip between his teeth. With force. Furiously. The taste of metal invades her palate, making clear that the wound on her lip has been reopened again.

She feels nauseous; a liquid runs down her chin and neck, finally getting lost inside her blouse, it's unknown to her whether it's saliva, blood or a mixture of both things.

Her innocence, in an untimely sign of sanity, reminds her that this is, in fact, her first kiss.

_No _Christa thinks _Something this painful couldn't possibly be a _kiss.

The soldier's tongue roams her wound, closing with a flourish the unbelievable action. A fraction after their bodies separate the goddess falls, shaky and weak, to her knees.

''Never look down when in front of a superior.'' There's no guilt in his voice. ''It doesn't matter who you are, you're still a prisoner.''

A trickle of her blood runs down Ymir's chin; Christa touches her own lips with concern, blood spurts out, small droplets spray her neck, lap and skirt. It hurts. It hurts a lot.

''Do you understand or do I have to discipline you again?'' Their eyes meet. The expression on that face, his stern look, his frown. It's more than anyone could bear.

And, as if she had seen the dead rabbits again, Christa bursts out crying.

She shudders, groans and sobs; she curls up on her site, trying to regain the weak composure she's been holding for a long time. She doesn't know whether it's because of her desperation or her wound, which brings Ymir to crouch down beside her.

''Take this.'' The brown-haired soldier offers her a white handkerchief. The goddess doubts, with enough reason to. ''Take it now... Do it before I change my mind.''

She weakly takes the object. Her eyes meet Ymir's; there's something different there, a sparkle that wasn't there before.

_Guilty _She dares to think _He's apologizing. _

From that moment, Renz's fragile eyes follow him, afraid of the reaction that her actions may cause.

She nods without uttering out a word. The small goddess remains like that, curled up, with the handkerchief stopping the small hemorrhage that afflicts her. It only takes a few seconds before the fabric turns crimson.

She thinks of the prisoners who need her. She tries to control herself, she tries not to be afraid, she tries not to be selfish.

She needs to be there for them. She _needs _to save them.

''You despise your life that much?'' The soldier whispers. He grabs the collar of Renz's shirt with paradoxical gentleness; for a moment he reminds her of Reiner, the gentile soldier.

She simply watches. She can't talk, she doesn't want to talk.

''Do you think it will make a difference?'' He spits out every single word. He leans in, making it impossible for the goddess to look away, she can't run away. ''Did you believe you could save them all?''

She splutters, but she doesn't reply. Ymir laughs, he laughs sarcastically, reluctantly. He's mocking her. He mocks her pain. He mocks her hopes.

Or that's what Christa believes.

''Work doesn't set you free, and neither will stealing the gun of a stupid soldier.''

Each word hurts, it hurts as much as the throbbing wound on her lip.

''Don't worry.'' Ymir backs away, but his stern look remains there, on her, piercing through her soul like a hunter. ''I'll make sure to spread the word of the tragic suicide of a goddess.''

Then, and only then, she understand why she's so afraid.

Ymir sees through her; her emotions, her secrets. When those brown orbs watch her, there's no place where she can hide. She can't lie to him. Lies are words, useless and ethereal words like all the others.

''Tell me your name.''

''Christa.'' She responds without hesitation. Her name, uttered out in a hoarse and reluctant whisper, is the first word that leaves her lips in a long while. That faint sound causes her a sense of security, she feels that her voice has returned, and that the words become easy to remember.

But, of course, words don't save anybody. They're useless and ethereal, like her name is.

''Liar.''


	3. Routines I

**A/N: **I'd like to thank you for your continued support. In about a week I'll be having exams so I may not be able to update a new chapter until the end of January. Thank you for your understanding.

**Disclaimer:** Shingeki no Kyojin © Hajime Isayama / Dachau © Jayne Stark

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**Chapter 2 - Routines I**

**4:00 AM**

The grating sound of the whistle invades her eardrums, ending with the precious lapse of unconsciousness commonly known as _sleep_.

''No...'' She tiredly whispers. The endless noises of hurrying footsteps snatch away all hope of falling asleep again. She sits on the edge of the bed and rubs off the small traces of sleepiness from her eyes.

Just a couple of dark circles and a scar on her lower lip, offer the world a hint of what have been her first three months in a concentration camp.

Once she has gathered enough strength she manages to stand up. She grabs the sheet (which is more like a piece of paper) and carefully makes her bed with it. The guardian is approaching, and everything needs to be perfect for her arrival.

In Dachau, the ordinary prisoners live in large barracks: large and precarious buildings, built almost entirely out of brick, specially designed to make their lives more miserable than they will, by default, be. All prisoners who arrived at the camp in November 1938, mostly Jews, were sent there.

Everyone but Christa, of course.

Her barrack is small, made of wood; at least thirty women from the upper class live with her, Aryan and beautiful, women who have betrayed the supreme order of the Reich for various reasons. They're women like her. Innocent. Prisoners.

On the exact moment that the prisoners seem to have finished, the door opens to make way for the most feared supervisor of Dachau.

_''Heil!'' _The supervisor greets them.

_''Heil Hitler!'' _All of them respond in unison, extending their right arms. The coordination is perfect, the formation is perfect, they're lucky.

A drop of sweat runs down her forehead. Annie Leonhardt forms part of the small group of women who manage the order of the prisoners; chief supervisor of the female branch of the _Schutzstaffel_, she's known, despite her gender and height, for being strong and brutal. It's said that she once broke the arm of one of her subordinates for hesitating in her presence.

The inspection consists of the following; the prisoners need to stay standing with their arm outstretched while a disinterested Annie revises their formation. the cleanliness of their spaces, the arranging of their beds and other small issues of little importance; nobody should move during the operation. Punishments vary depending on the mistake committed by the prisoners.

Minutes pass. The inspection continues and it's now her turn.

Christa keeps her eyes looking up, she knows that Leonhardt likes to be looked in the eye. She tries not to seem nervous, she controls her breathing as the cold eyes watch her, she's having trouble keeping her arm up. Time passes slowly. Very slowly.

Annie nods. She has approved. She doesn't respond to the gesture, she knows that her supervisor would take it as a challenge.

One by one, the women are gaining her approval, they're lucky.

When it's the last woman's turn, the young wife of an important member of a communist party, Annie stops in front of her. something's wrong.

''No breakfast.'' Those are her only words. The woman looks at her indignantly, in the way only a woman from the upper class can.

_No! _Christa shouts out mentally _That will only make things worse!_

''No dinner.'' Annie continues in response to the challenge. Renz takes the liberty of observing the scene carefully. Suddenly, her hands start sweating.

There's an unnecessary fold on the corner of the prisoner's bed, one very similar to that of her own bed, of which she had done the impossible to try to hide.

That innocent fold went unnoticed before the ferocious look of Leonhardt, but not before the look of that woman whose pride lies, trampled over, on the cold floor.

''Her!'' The woman shouts pointing vehemently. Pointing at her. She breaks the formation, she undoes the greeting. ''The bed of that little bitch is the same as mine! Her mistake is the same as mine!''

_''Bitch_._'' _The word resonates in her mind, she feels that the tears will start rolling out shortly, her arm trembles slightly.

''Why is that bitch special?! Punish her! Punish her like you punish us...!''

Error. Grave error. Annie Leonhardt should never be challenged.

Two movements. With only two movements the woman, who's taller than her, falls to the ground on her back in a painful and humiliating pose; that only seems like a game for someone who can easily overthrow the most robust of the male soldiers.

The tension, caused by the waiting of a terrible punishment, takes shape in the slow gasps of the woman. Silence, for several seconds there was only silence.

''Latrines.'' Annie mutters at last. The tension breaks into relief, the woman will live another day.

Christa knows that, deep down, Annie is very friendly.

**4:30 AM**

Shower time arrives. Unlike the Jews, who rarely get the opportunity to wash themselves up, Aryan women are granted the privilege of one daily shower.

They form a single row. Christa feels small next to those women who, in other times, were the queens of their society. She's a mere child when compared to them, a child who's not supposed to be there.

She closes herself out in thought. It's something she learnt to do some time ago now; she closes her eyes, she closes her heart and she dreams. She dreams of her cozy home in Munich, she dreams of the friends whom she'll never see again, she dreams of their smiles. It's been so long since anyone has offered her a kind smile.

_Bitch. _The word resonates in her head again. She looks down while she walks towards her place in the row; she uses the power of the routine to avoid tripping and her willpower to avoid crying.

She was dying for anyone to smile at her kindly!

**6:00 AM**

After breakfast it's time to take list. The main square's packed by prisoners of all kinds in perfect formation. They're not allowed to move. A couple of corpses decorate the floor, perhaps they yawned at the wrong time.

A member of the SS is in charge of each barrack, he crosses out each prisoner as they respond, he prepares fitting punishments as they take their time to respond.

''B 4567!''

''Yes, sir!''

''B 4568!''

''Yes, sir!''

''Christa Renz!''

''Yes, sir...''

**7:00 AM**

''It's the routine.'' She tells herself in an attempt to liven up the long road towards her workplace. She feels the eyes on her back. Her hair bothers them, her composure bothers them. They harass her. They hate her.

There's a protocol in Dachau; no one will ever speak of it, that's unnecessary. If you're in Dachau, you know it, you know of those two primary actions that introduce you to a concentration camp's brutality.

First of all the prisoners, naked and helpless, are led towards crude, dirty and suffocating bathrooms, where they're awaited by special hairdressers of the _SS_. With nothing to prevent it, their hair falls to the ground along with their dignity.

_''A bald goddess.'' _Ymir had told his soldiers as if it was the most natural thing in the world. _''Isn't that absurd?''_

After the initial physical humiliation, the psychological begins. In a narrow room, as they're assigned a new home, they're also assigned a number, a number that is tattooed on their left forearm with a bluish ink that is impossible to erase. They don't have a name, the number becomes their new name and identity.

_''Once this is all over, we'll get married.'' _Ymir single-handedly destroyed any kind of charm that phrase could have. _''Can you imagine how hard it'd be to memorize all of those numbers at the altar?''_

There was no protocol. Ymir doesn't follow protocols.

He doesn't follow protocols when he kisses her for no reason. He doesn't follow protocols when he infiltrates her room at night. He doesn't follow protocols when he destroys all hopes of getting out of there.

That's why her hair's intact; that's why her name's intact; that's why her humanity's intact. That's why her solitude is as well.

_Bitch. _Her mind yells at her over and over. She knows what they say about her; she knows of the rumors.

_The sergeant's bitch. _The prisoners call her.

_Ymir's bitch. _The soldiers call her.

But Christa knows that's false, she knows that, for Ymir, she's not his _bitch._

She's his toy.


	4. Routines II

**Warning: **Sexual contents.

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin © Hajime Isayama / Dachau © Jayne Stark

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**Chapter III - Routines II**

**9:00 AM**

A painful sting interrupts the incessant movement of her hands. For the ninth time on that day so far, Christa feels how the annoying needle pierces her thumb.

_Work will set you free_ - It's the scoop with which Dachau welcomes its inhabitants. From dawn to dusk, for a prisoner working means that you get to live, and for those who cannot work... Well, those cannot live.

To work and to die. There's not much difference.

For the women of the Reich, fortunate in a nest of misery, far more simple jobs are reserved. Her job, like many of her peers, is sewing. Embroidering badges, repairing uniforms, redoing irremediable clothes; from dawn to dusk with nothing more than that hateful needle as a tool.

_It's the routine. _She tells herself while she resumes her way through the fabric. Her hand shakes inexplicably while the needle dances nonstop; a wrong stitch is enough to condemn her working hours in a blind knot that she can never undo. One among many. All her work are wrong sewing.

For something important like work, even more important punishments are reserved, it's not surprising that an SS officer shoots a prisoner for simply breaking a rock at the wrong angle. But for them, the women of the Reich, the punishments are somewhat more... Tolerable.

Missing out on lunch, prolonged isolation, forced marches under the hot sun are common and ordinary penances; but the one she fears the most is, unfortunately for her, also the most common one: Having the _privilege _to satisfy the needs of a soldier on duty.

The mere thought causes her to tremble.

_No. _She thinks immediately with all the security she can muster at those moments. _Ymir wouldn't allow it. _

She caresses the shirt in her hands with nostalgia, the almost imperceptible stains of blood on the collar lead her to touch the scar on her lower lip. She knows whose it is, she also knows that the dried blood originates from her own lips.

No member of the _Schutzstaffel _dare touch her. None. They've learnt, the hard way. that it will only lead to terrible consequences.

It happened during her third day, where a low-ranking soldier cornered her while she was headed towards the dormitory area, a soldier whose fingers roamed the fabric covering her skin with lust.

_''Ymir's bitch.'' _ The man whispered in her ear while his hands awkwardly roamed the curvature of her breasts. _''He treats you like a queen. What are you to him but his bitch?''_

She needn't yell, nor complain. In the blink of an eye she found the man on his knees, his fingers crooked in inhuman and painful angles. Nobody touches _the sergeant's bitch_. Nobody.

Once she saw the slender figure cutting through the gloom, Christa threw herself into his arms, her eyes flooded with tears of despair and relief.

_''Are you scared, squirt?'' _As she heard his scathing voice, the goddess understood her big mistake. The rabbit fell into the wolf's clutches, and the bite marks on her neck took weeks to heal.

_It's the routine. _She repeats to herself. She knows the touch of that bite against her skin. She knows that pain more than her own name.

But the pain is just the beginning.

Ymir has his own torture method reserved exclusively for her, a macabre, brilliant and subtle torture method. Extra food, comforts, a dignified treatment. The lack of a number is just the tip of the iceberg in a sea of privileges that no prisoner has ever enjoyed.

Many things may be believed, it may be believed that that one high-ranking person longs to offer his secret lover a _happy _life. But it's not like that, it's more complex than that.

Every positive aspect condemns her to a sea of loneliness.

Every positive aspect earns her the hatred of everyone around.

Every positive aspect encloses her in the irremediable reality.

Every positive aspect puts everyone against her.

_''You still wish to save them?'' _Her soul speaks to her in a familiar voice, a voice that isn't hers. _''Would you die for them? For those who call you a bitch?'' _

Renz's hands tremble, the annoying needle falls to the ground.

_I need to do this. _She says in response. _They need me._

_''They will kill you.'' _Ymir's sarcastic laugh resonates in her head again and again. _''No... It's more complex than that.''_

A furtive teardrop falls on her own withered blood on that garment. She takes it in her arms and holds it against her, letting her tears permeate it. She allows her essence to mix with that of the cruel soldier.

Sometimes she would wish for Ymir to be kind to her.

**12:00 PM**

Lunch brings along another endless period of loneliness.

She's alone, confined to a corner of the large space that the German soldiers jokingly call _dining room. _She has skillfully devoured the bowl of bitter and blackish soup, and of the glass of water nothing remains now.

Only a piece of stale bread remains of which she feels she's unable to eat.

What was her life like before Dachau?

Did she have one?

She takes the bread in her hands, watching it as if she could find her answers there. The memories of her happy years are vague and confusing. She recalls a humble cottage, she recalls periods of loneliness, she recalls her real name.

_Christa. _She reprimands herself. _Your name is Christa._

She recalls a group of children around her, children with which she grew up and shared laughter and innocent pranks.

_''Bread!'' _The memory of Sasha's voice creates a hint of a smile on her.

She wonders what it's like to smile; she wonders what it's like to have friends; she wonders where they are.

As if it were a ritual, she breaks a piece of bread for each one of them, like how they used to do on the streets of Munich when they gathered to play.

A large piece for Sasha, who loves bread.

One for Connie, who follows Sasha's nonsense.

One for Armin, who loves to tell stories about the world.

One for Eren, who always gets into trouble.

One for Mikasa, who always gets him out of those troubles.

One for Jean, who gets Eren into more trouble.

One for Marco... Who will never return.

She regrets not seeing them again, she regrets having never told them _the_ _truth. _She regrets not having friends.

And then, without expecting nor asking for it, a piece of paper falls from the hands of a soldier, opening up in front of her as if it was her fate to read it.

_- If I could, I would keep you company -_

She takes it in her trembling hands detonating in a sea of tears and she understands the meaning of those words written with gentleness.

She smiles weakly as she observes the tall man (taller than the others) walk away; the couple of soldiers accompanying him give him a knowing look before disappearing too.

She takes the pieces of bread and, with that almost faint smile, rips it apart in three pieces.

One for Reiner, the gentile soldier who is always looking after her.

One for Annie, the cold supervisor who always forgives her carelessness.

One for Bertholdt, who goes through the trouble of writing kind words to her.

**11:00 PM**

Bedtime has already passed by, but she, wrapped in concerns, stares at the ceiling. Now, like many other nights, Christa can't sleep.

How long has it been since the nights were so quiet?

Is it possible to miss such a spectacle of erotic sadism?

She searches for the answer without finding it, she touches her neck with imperceptible anxiety in the gloomy darkness that invades the barracks at nights. She listens to the rhythmic breathing of her peers who are sleeping after an exhausting day and she regrets not being able to do the same.

How long has it been? One week? Two? Three?

Did something bad happen to him?

No, it's not like that. This is just another macabre, brilliant and subtle torture method; depriving her from the only human contact she has is just a strategy to accelerate her path to madness. As the night chill invades her bones, the lump in her throat she's been trying to contain hurts a little more.

Is she really this much of a masochist? Does she really need him this much?

She doesn't want to cry, not for something as absurd as this is. She curls up, her eyes getting used to the darkness where she's been submerged for several hours.

''Ymir.'' It escapes from her mouth like a whisper; the first word she utters in weeks is, precisely, the name of the person she's looking forward to seeing so much. She wonders why loneliness is suddenly hitting her with such force; for how long is he going to leave her there? Week after week waiting for another human being's warmth.

A slight crunch revives her senses and makes her face the darkness she's trying to get used to with more attention. She doesn't see him coming, she doesn't hear his boots nor his breathing, only the feeling of her lips being trapped in a warm contact alerts her of the intruder who'd been watching her this whole time; desperate bites cause tremors that have little or nothing to do with any kind of fear.

Why did it take him so long?

Why did he leave her alone for so long?

She draws him near with her arms, longing for a deeper contact, something that will guarantee her that he will not leave her alone again. That known tongue plays with her own while the cold touch of a pair of hands infiltrates under her nightwear. A strong scratch on one of her breasts confirms what she already knew with certainty.

''Did you miss me?'' Ymir whispers in a hoarse growl.

She doesn't respond. She doesn't want to admit that she longed for his kisses, she doesn't want to admit that her soul needs such a rough and human touch to preserve what little sanity she has. She doesn't want to fall in that cruel torture that only she can comprehend.

Ymir climbs on top of her, the brightness of his eyes barely visible in the darkness. He caresses her breasts with the cold touch of his hands, he squeezes and molds them with such force that she knows they'll hurt the next day.

How much sanity has she already lost?

Why does the pain suddenly feel so pleasurable?

Ymir's knee sinks into her crotch in a distracted gesture. Something within her vibrates and stirs in an unknown and exciting feeling, which takes shape through a moan escaping from her lips.

''Oh.'' Christa can feel that malicious smirk against her neck grow. ''Is that what you wish for, my little goddess?''

_No. _She wants to cry out. That unknown feeling worries and puzzles her. She tries to push the soldier away from her in a weak attempt, but the gentle sway of that knee against her most sensitive spot breaks through the little willpower she still has.

''Don't yell little girl, or you'll even be waking up the Führer.'' She presses her lips together tightly in response to that sarcastic remark. Ymir's hands expose her breasts while his knee rams against her privacy with force.

When their eyes meet, Christa notices something she hadn't seen on any occasion. Ymir's eyes have an unusual brightness, one so comforting that it makes her wonder if all she really wants from that encounter is the proximity of any human being.

A ramming more powerful than the others makes her arch her back; she tries to fight back the moans that are threatening to escape from her mouth while the soldier's experienced lips roam her now sore breasts, licking and biting, making it increasingly difficult to remain silent.

Unfamiliar emotions invade her. The pace of that one friction intensifies every moment; her body, her chest and her sex stir as her mind stops functioning. She buries her fingers in her companion's brown hair as she feels how her self-control gradually fades away.

Then, in a reaction triggered by an excruciating bite on one of her nipples, an electrifying sensation invades her from head to toe. The acute pain on her chest only serves to prolong something as intense and pleasurable that she dares not name.

Submerged in the waste of that delirium, and while a thread of saliva falls from her lips she wonders, in a brief glimmer of lucidity, where did the intense fear that invades her disappear to when hands of outsiders feel her skin?

Does she really hate loneliness that much to the point of accepting those rough touches?

Ymir takes her lips in his and the metallic taste of her own blood invades her palate. This time it doesn't cause her to feel nauseous, she can find the sweetness in that taste and the kindness that she longs for so much in that gesture.

Deep down, very deep down, she wishes for Ymir to always be kind to her.

''Who would've thought? You can smile.'' The soldier whispers with a hint of irony.

That's right, Christa smiles in the darkness, it's the smile she couldn't remember; the smile that formed on her lips during those happy years on the streets of Munich, when she met with her friends to share a piece of bread.

During her next lunch, she would save a piece for Ymir.


	5. Historia

**A/N: **I decided to upload one chapter today due to our goddess' birthday! This will be the last chapter I will be uploading before my exams next week. Enjoy the read, and thank you for your reviews. Oh, and, Ymir is not a man in this fic, it's just Historia who believes she's a guy.

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin © Hajime Isayama / Dachau © Jayne Stark

* * *

**Chapter IV - Historia**

Many years ago, in an almost forgotten childhood, little _Historia _asked the mirror.

_What is death?_

The mirror, obviously, didn't respond, condemning that question to a hidden place in the mind of the poor girl: Forgetfulness. But in forgetfulness nothing dies, instead it patiently awaits our return.

Therefore, many years later, as the incessant river of prisoners crosses the gate of Dachau, Christa Renz recalls a question that she believed to have forgotten.

_What is death?_

She trembles, perhaps due to the cold, perhaps due to her own fears, perhaps due to the horrifying cries that invade every corner of the concentration camp. Cries of men. Barking of dogs. That macabre melody pierces through her eardrums as she makes her way through the crowd that observes the _selection. _

When a selection starts, all the prisoners, whoever they are, are obliged to observe the process as a proof, a proof that the Third Reich merely thrives. All should see it. All. All except Christa.

_''Don't you dare spy.'' _Ymir warns her when the arrival of a new Jewish shipment is announced. _''You can't do anything about it.''_

Obedient to his orders, Christa usually waits in the solitude of the dormitories, hugging her knees, covering her ears, waiting for all of it to end; but this night is different, tonight she has decided that things can't go on like this.

_You can always do something about it._

Her face is hidden behind a cloak, a mere three meters separate her from those newcomers writhing in pain and anger. It reminds her of herself from some time ago, she recalls the old freight truck and the barrel of a gun against her temple.

_Do they know? _She wonders with trembling hands. _Do they know what's awaiting them?_

''Move, scum!'' With blows, a group of soldiers of the _Sturmabteilung _are in charge of organizing the prisoners by gender in perfect lines. Corpses adorn the floor even before the selection starts; maybe they tried to resist. Maybe.

While the _Sturmabteilung _takes care of the dirty work, the elite, the _Schutzstaffel_, awaits them in perfect formation in front on them. Still, vigilant, ready for what may happen. She searches for familiar faces, they're all there.

Reiner.

Annie.

Bertholdt.

_Ymir. _The sergeant waits patiently in front of his men; impeccable in his black uniform, the medals adorning his chest and the long black trench coat resting on his shoulders reaffirm the powerful presence that he possesses. He seems like a titan next to the rest of his soldiers.

_''Sieg Heil!'' _His voice sweeps the others away like a hurricane. Only his men are capable of following him fiercely.

_''Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!''_

Sweat runs down her forehead as delirium invades her. Her heart is pounding. That voice makes her recall the touch of those leather gloves, the pain of his playful bites. For an instant, her darkest part wants that imposing soldier to undress and possess her right there and then.

She shakes her head vehemently while her innocent face is covered in a horrible blush, her sanity slowly returns.

What is she thinking about?

What for her is an image of inexplicable wonder, for those poor men it should represent the face of a monster.

_No. _She innocently tells herself while regulating the frantic beating of her heart. _Ymir isn't like that._

She wants to believe it. She really wants to believe.

Without a word, the _SS _doctors begin the selection. The process, despite never having seen it, isn't unknown to her nor is it hard to understand. Separate the _useful_ from the _useless._

If deemed healthy, the prisoner is sent to forced labor; if considered incompetent, the prisoner is immediately sent to _disinfection. _But as long as the prisoner isn't assigned a number, disinfection doesn't exist in Dachau.

The smell of burning flesh, crematoria lighting up the night, she knows the truth. They all know.

_Including them._

A void fills, ironically, the entirety of her belly. The prisoners scream as they're divided, but she can only focus on a sergeant's brown orbs who remains calm before the horror around him.

_If I wasn't useful to you. _She meditates with a lump in her throat. _Would you have done the same to me?_

Memories of that morning invade her like a storm. She remembers lying on the comfortable improvised cot of the office apart from the rest, warm lips travelled her skin while a pair of gloved fingers penetrate inside her again and again with great force.

_''Don't hold back, my goddess.'' _Ymir's voice whispered to her, providing her with security.

The group of condemned increases at the rate of her own heartbeats: elderly, sick. All incompetent. All clumsy.

She sneaks a glance at her thumb, the same thumb who has been pierced by the same needle over a thousand times in one day. She remembers Ymir noticing her tiny wounds, taking her thumb to gently kiss it.

_''You're so clumsy.'' _ He whispered in between mocking laughter, getting ready to take her again.

With each judged prisoner, a part of her is as well. She loses the notion of her place, she loses the notion of the cries around her, she loses the notion of the smell of death. She wants to leave, she wants to leave that ridiculous debate behind and run, once and for all, towards the warm embrace of her lover.

_Lover. _The word strikes her like a lightning bolt; she knows its meaning, little _Historia _knew it all too well.

Confusion penetrates deep within her being. What has she fallen into? In what kind of fatal and inexplicable attraction has she been caught?

What is she to Ymir?

She's had enough. While she makes her way through the prisoners to leave to her dormitory once and for all, a rough voice, clearly of one of the doctors, draws her attention.

''Look at this, sir!'' A small lump is thrown, like a sack of potatoes, at the sergeant's feet, it twists and moans once it hits the ground.

Christa's heart, already dejected by painful reflections, rises to her throat and gets back into place loudly. Casual murmurs travel around the soldiers' formation while the prisoners observing the scene lower their gazes in complete silence.

It's not a common prisoner. It's a girl. The first she sees in a long while.

''What do we do, sir?'' That one phrase, covered in grim excitement, reaches her ears like a death sentence. Soldiers and prisoners, all keep quiet. With steady steps the titan approaches the little girl, crouching down in front of her as if about to devour her.

''Look at me.'' He slowly lifts her chin up. The girl remains motionless, shaking like a small dog, isolating herself in the safety of her happy years. ''Look at me.''

But those words, so hypnotic, so his, have never failed. The infant blue orbs open up and then, only then, something within Christa manages to react. A lively sense of horror runs down her spine as the face of the girl becomes fully visible.

She recognizes herself. She recognizes _Historia. _

_Do something. _She thinks desperately. _Save her like you saved me._

Indifferently, Ymir quietly returns to his initial position. Christa holds her hands to her chest, her breathing gets heavier with each passing moment.

_Prove to me you're not a monster!_

But Ymir just nods.

''Make it quick, I have things to do.''

The noise of a loading revolver breaks the goddess' heart into countless small pieces. A bright and unwelcome clear thought leads her to become aware of reality, a reality she'd never seen until now.

There are no children in Dachau.

The cloak falls to the ground as her steps speed up. Her survival instinct (or perhaps her deep disappointment) fills her teary eyes with a bold and unusual spark, the same that led her to steal Reiner's weapon long ago.

She cares little about the surprised looks of Reiner, Berth and Annie, she cares little about the curses of the soldier she knocks over, she cares little about the little girl's terror when she forces her to her feet.

But Ymir's face... No, she doesn't have enough courage to look him into the eyes.

''Run!''

The first shot brushes her abdomen when they both start running.

''Orders sergeant! Sergeant!'' More shots are fired around them. From all directions. One of them passes through her right side, taking along a couple of long blonde locks. She runs after her, without stopping, without getting scared, covering her with her own body from the constant shots.

_You can always do something about it._

From the torrent that passes over their heads, a timely bullet hits one of its targets, causing a sharp and deadly pain on Renz' ankle. A choked cry escapes from her lips as her walking pace loses its fluidity.

''Don't look at me, run!'' The girl, silently crying, nods.

Christa cries, she cries and smiles because, although moving becomes increasingly difficult, that girl, who reminds her so much of herself, who reminds her so much of Historia, will be free. Without chains. Without walls.

She doesn't mind dying. That memory called _Historia _also didn't mind it. After all, what is death?

_Lover. _It resonates in her head over and over as her walking becomes more clumsy. She recalls his lips on hers, on her neck, on her breasts. She recalls the malicious smile she'll never get to see again.

She's not his bitch, nor his toy. She's simply his lover and nothing else.

Nothing else...

Her view becomes clouded; it's unknown to her whether the shots have stopped or if it's just her who can't hear them anymore. When the unfamiliar arm encircles her waist she doesn't have any strength left to keep going. The cold touch of the medals touches her neck while the leather brushes against her skin.

A second arm rises against her side. She sees the swastika. She sees the weapon. She hears the shot.

The small body falls to the ground wrapped in a crimson dew; for a moment, that dew takes the form of a pair of wings. Weak, worn-out, destined to take her to the only escape that every prisoner has. Because nobody escapes a death camp alive. Nobody.

The last thing Christa hears before losing consciousness is, precisely, what she fears most.

Ymir's cold and sharp whisper in her ear.

''I warned you...''

One last tear runs down her cheeks before everything turns black.


	6. Memories

**A/N: **Enjoy the chapter. :)

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark

* * *

**Chapter V - Memories**

Darkness. There's no difference between opening and closing her eyes. Everything around. Absolutely everything is darkness.

She gently rubs her face in a desperate attempt to understand her situation and, if she's lucky, to comprehend her own existence.

What happened? The rubbing of the leather of her long boots against her skin makes her wince. Her ankle hurts. It hurts a lot.

_I warned you... _that confusing sentence, scathing unlike any other, is her last memory before waking up, alone and nauseous, in a darkness as gruesome as death.

In a hell such as Dachau, even the smallest of punishments is extremely cruel. However, the most feared punishment is, exceedingly, the most discreet of all.

Because the bunker is not only worse than pain; the bunker is worse than death.

Nothing. Nobody. The dim light entering from under the door is her only company and is, probably, what has kept her sanity intact for so long.

In the beginning, as she found herself alone in the darkness, the goddess tried to scream. She screamed until getting hurt, she cried until drying up: she asked for help, explanations, company. Something. Somebody.

''Ymir.'' She repeats constantly with what remains of her voice. That _unknown _word manages, for a few moments, to clear up the horror produced by isolation. She doesn't know its meaning, but she doesn't waste time thinking of it.

Because nobody remembers in the bunker, they only dream. They sleep, dream and go mad.

Sleeping and awaking. There are no days nor hours here, only awakenings.

_It's the routine._

Her throat burns, she's thirsty. She searches in vain for the water bottle that appears, fresh and brimming, in her cell from time to time.

Her stomach growls, she's hungry. How long has it been since she had her last meal? Days? Weeks? She can't remember.

In perpetual darkness, human beings tend to lose their consciousness: their environment, their memories and even _their own self_.

''Historia.'' She reminds herself in a faint whisper, curling up to protect herself against the cold looming in the shadows. ''My name is Historia.''

She remembers. She remembers the beautiful Munich, the city of her happy days. She recalls two girls (because that's what they are, girls) on a street lit by the last rays of the setting sun. They laugh and they play, engaged in casual talk that she fails to understand.

_''I thought Marco would come along with us.'' _She recognizes her own voice in the smallest of the two girls. _''Is he as worried as the others are?'' _Her friend, who chews on a piece of bread, remains silent for a while.

_''He's somewhat worried.'' _She replies with a full mouth.

_''Worried?'' _She sputters in confusion. _''Did Jean cause trouble again?''_

Sasha Braus, her friend ever since she can remember, finishes her food with an unusual seriousness. Something is wrong.

_''It's not that... His father received a summon a few days ago...'' _

She feels the tension run through each one of her bones. Sasha, realizing the effect of her words, offers her a nervous smile.

_''It's nothing serious!'' _She yells out. _'''Nothing has happened to him yet... Goddess?''_

She remains silent. Marco Bodt, the oldest one of their group of friends, is one of the many members of the Jewish community who have been oppressed by Hitler since he has been in power in 1933. In fact, the boy's father is one of the many rabbis who founded their own clandestine synagogues after that date.

_''And now him...''_

_''He will be fine, goddess.'' _The genuine childish smile that Sasha offers her manages to calm down, although partially, a large part of her nerves. _''I assure you!''_

Christa lets out a resigned sigh, the last thing she wants is to worry her best friend.

_''I hope so...''_

It hurts. It hurts that one of her friends is under the watching eye of the Reich...

* * *

''Ymir...'' an unfamiliar echo interrupts her memories. A deep shadow blocks the thin beam of light that helps her remain sane, immersing her in complete darkness.

_It's just my imagination. _She tells herself as she settles down on the floor again. _That light never existed._

She remembers. She remembers one cold November night. A small candle lights up the room partially; she doesn't really need it but, the flickering light on the wax has always filled her soul with tranquility.

And tonight, Christa needs all the tranquility that she can gather.

_Nothing will happen to them. _She thinks with a lump in her throat. _Nothing at all._

Minutes have passed since the first glass collapsed, and only a few seconds after the first cry reached her ears.

The hunting looms over Munich. A few blocks from there, the Führer's assault forces have begun the pandemonium... The first of many.

_''Everything will be fine.'' _Those children, in tears, approach her like puppies to their mother.

Because, after all, Christa has never feared for her own safety. She fear for _them. _She fears for the three Jewish kids she's been hiding away for several days. Without parents. Without a family. Like her.

_''We will be fine...''_

Then, someone knocks on the door.

* * *

''Ymir.'' She repeats becoming aware of the present. She turns around searching for the walls that she cannot see.

The beam of light flickers constantly. As if something were obstructing it every so often. For a moment, the unfamiliar echo evokes the walking of a pair of boots.

_Somebody... There's somebody there._

No, it's just her imagination. In the bunker there's only loneliness.

She remembers. She remembers the sound of their hurrying footsteps against the pavement. Thousands of pieces of glass break beneath her heavy boots. She runs as fast as she can, always making sure that they're following her; the children should already be far away, she has given them time to escape.

Or that's what she hopes for.

Minutes have passed since a group of men broke down the door of her home, looking for the group of Jews she was hiding away. Someone must have spoken. Someone must have betrayed her.

_''Get back here! Whore!'' _Hell looms all around her. Every showcase has been broken, every store has been plundered, every woman has been outraged and each prisoner has been caught with ease.

How to describe a horror that not even she can understand? Blood and fire. Germany's choleric shadow looming over Israel.

The Holocaust has begun and, with it, her own hell...

* * *

''Ymir.'' She repeats louder, hoping to control her frantic heartbeats caused by the ghost of her capture. She wishes not to remember, she really wishes to.

At last, after repeated unsuccessful attempts, she manages to find the water bottle she had hoped to find so much.

_Thank God. _She drinks clumsily, spilling a great part of the liquid over herself. Just after she finishes, the empty water bottle falls to the ground; she's drunk too fast and an uncontrollable coughing fit overwhelms all her senses.

An unexpected crunch tenses her up. She hears a slight pressure on the door, as if someone on the other side was leaning against the door to be able to hear better; for a few seconds, what appears to be a discrete breathing reaches her ears.

_There's somebody there. _No, that doesn't make sense.

Nobody knows her; she's no longer Christa, now she's Historia Reiss.

A lonely and imperceptible tear falls from her eye, merging with the water that's still clumsily sliding down her chin.

She remembers. She remembers the end of her hasty flight. She stops abruptly when, among all the corpses distributed across the floor, one in particular grabs her attention. One she recognizes. One she appreciates.

She's left speechless.

With one half of his body mutilated in an act of satanic savagery, Marco Bodt's lifeless body observes her with anxiety recorded in his pupils.

Her legs grow limp making her fall to her knees. The overflowing tears fall in complete silence.

_''I'm sorry.'' _She mutters with her eyes fixed on the corpse. _''I'm sorry...''_

She forgets her own existence. She forgets to flee.

And that's how Reiner found her: with blood on her face, her shirt torn apart and with a group of men touching her mercilessly. The mere thought makes her shiver.

* * *

She touches her body almost compulsively; even in that isolated cell she can feel the disgusting touch of those men roaming up and down her skin with lust.

_They're dead. _She tells herself desperately. _Reiner shot them all. They're dead!_

A terror that she believed to be dead takes over her. The bunker awakens the greatest fears, however they are, whatever they are.

''Ymir.'' She repeats compulsively. ''Ymir... Ymir...''

Each time it becomes harder to breathe, each time it is harder to retain her tears, each time it is harder to feel clean.

_Nothing happened. _She reminds herself. _Nothing at all._

But she cannot help it, she's losing her mind.

She wants to replace it all. She wants to replace the hands of those men with the caresses of a pair of leather gloves; she wants to replace their punches with the malicious bites of someone who she cannot remember. She wants to look into the brown eyes she loathes so much.

She tries to remember... She tries to remember...

''Ymir!''

And on that moment, feeling her reality shatter to pieces, when the door bursts open, dazzling her with the light from the hallway. The demon's shadow turns into the most beautiful image she had ever seen.

The devil smiles at her; she remembers that smile... She remembers everything now... She remembers him.

''Did I make you wait, my goddess?''


	7. King

**A/N: **This chapter takes place in the same temporal space as the previous one, with a twist that you are sure to notice.

**Warning: **Lime

**Disclaimer:**Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark.

* * *

**Chapter VI - King**

The furious folds of her brow increase as the pressure on her chest also does. She doesn't like this. She's never liked this.

_Damn it._

She carefully adjusts the already worn-out bandage who hides away the two humble mounds sticking out from her naked torso from the public eye; she doesn't take precautions lightly since, even with how little notable they are, they could mean her death.

She looks into the big mirror built in the wall only to find her decaying face; a grimace replaces her usual scathing smile while a haggard look is responsible for replacing the usual indifference of her brown eyes.

She feels tired and sick, but it's inevitable. How not to feel like this when her favorite game gets out of control?

She clicks her tongue in annoyance.

_It's just a game..._

She grabs her favorite shirt, the one with that peculiar stain of dried blood on the twisted collar; among the clothing she notices a peculiar scent, one that permeates her own skin once she wears the garment. It smells like _her. _

That soft fragrance makes her recall mornings of yore, where the soft hands of her lover travelled her collar carefully, tying the knot of the untamed black tie, that's causing her so much trouble now, with submissive gesture.

_''I'll be waiting for you.'' _The memory of that insecure whisper, accompanied by the fleeting touch of her small lips against her own makes her smile.

_It was just a game. _She tells herself discouragingly. _She did it because he ordered her to do so._

She takes a distracted look at the pocket watch that she stole a while ago from the belongings of a dead Jew. 6:56 AM.

She must hurry.

She takes a look into the mirror one last time, making sure that it's the image of a man of hard gestures who's looking back at her.

It's her. She has turned into that man.

Every detail of the majestic uniform of the Führer's personal guard reaffirms the illusion that she wishes to create: her medals, her leather gloves, her shiny boots. Everything.

But her proud swastika is, foremost, the primordial detail.

''It's my game.'' She mutters to the object as if it were able to hear her voice. ''Not yours...''

She abandons her improvised room to continue her daily routine. The smell of burning flesh hits her senses once she sets foot outside the headquarters of the _SS_. The ash stings her eyes, strengthening the state of perpetual rage that she conserves since the _incident_.

A common soldier would worry about counting the decreasing amount of prisoners who make it through the night. But that's not her case, she has _really_ important things to think about and, therefore, has another destiny.

As sergeant in command of the regiment settled in the region of Dachau, the control of the concentration camp lies, solely and exclusively, in her hands: Everything before her eyes, everything beneath her feet. Nobody talks if she doesn't allow it. Nobody takes action if she doesn't allow it.

Nobody. Except _her_, of course.

_Damn it._

She takes long strides down the path; her soldiers freeze all around her since they have learnt that, when their sergeant is breathing out threats like that, it's never a good idea to mess with him... Or, of course, what they assume is a _him_.

Her trip turns out to be shorter than she had wanted it to be; she remains standing for a while, spitefully watching the doors of the old building.

The bunker, where her ominous duties await her, is at the back of the complex; the prison within the prison, obscure like the jaws of a hunter wanting to taste the juicy soul of its prey.

Because in the bunker, the soul is the first to fall.

She enters the enclosure, she passes by her office with an annoyed expression since, right now, the last thing she wants to do is to work. She walks slowly along the main corridor in an almost predetermined way, as if her fate were as clear as crystal: the door at the back, the one she forbade all her men to visit.

Is she doing fine?

She ordered her most diligent doctors to treat her injured ankle, shouting death threats to those who made even the smallest of mistakes.

She remained at her side, since she lost consciousness until the last fragment of bullet abandoned her fragile skin; holding her hand, wiping away her sweat, keeping her company until making sure she was safe.

She was always there.

But in the end, despite being flooded with concern hidden in anger (And taking the life of her best doctor in the process), she left her to her fate in that rotten cell, condemning her to wait in a cycle of endless darkness.

_It's just a game... _And she likes to play.

Ever since she can remember (Including during those days when she wandered around the streets of Munich), chess has been her favorite game; it's not for nothing that she was able to join the military police of the Reich being a non-Aryan woman... Since, for her, a mediocre board on a table is not enough.

The entire world is her board, its habitants are her pieces: Her pawns dance around her fulfilling her every whim.

She enjoys playing, she enjoys it a lot.

But Christa...

Christa is different.

Since long ago (More than you can imagine), the petite blonde has been the centerpiece of her flawless game. She had done the impossible to get rid of her sickly suicidal instinct, believing that, if she understood every detail of her cruel reality, maybe, only maybe, she would give her the courage to live under her own name.

For a few moments, when her kisses were no longer mere stolen whims, she thought she had achieved it.

But that was, obviously, just a game.

''Damn it!'' She kicks in the door with rage that she cannot contain.

She had been, for the very first time, about to _lose _her game. if she hadn't deflected the gun barrel originally aimed at her heart with her own hands, Christa would be... No, she dare not think about it.

She ended up, naturally, with an injured hand, and the owner of the weapon (That one soldier with the twisted fingers she had caught a while ago trying to take the goddess by force), had to pay a very, very high price for it; a small price to pay, of course.

It's been two weeks since that night.

''Damn it...''

She leans her back against the door, losing the composure that every high-ranking soldier must maintain. She bites her lip until it starts bleeding, the metallic taste in her palate remind her of the voice of her young lover, moaning her name over and over again.

_''Ymir.'' _She massages her temples with force. Does she really need it this much that it's even making her believe to be able to hear her panting voice through the thick wall?

_Damn it._

She paces uncontrollably from side to side, like a trapped wild tiger, all of a sudden, inside the cage of a circus. Her breathing becomes heavy as her desperate steps pick up speed.

She ordered Leonhardt to give her fresh water everyday. Has she been doing it well?

And Reiner? She ordered that cheap bitch to stay away from her Christa.

Many times, amid frequent sleepless nights, she imagines that soldier entering that cell; she imagines him touching that smooth skin, kissing those fragile shoulders, penetrating that warm interior that no man has ever invaded... Sometimes, she imagines her lover enjoying it.

_No. _She furiously tells herself. _She's _mine.

But... This is just a game, is it not?

A noise from within the cell covers her forehead with a delicate layer of cold sweat; her goddess coughs stridently, burdened by ailments that she can't figure out from the hallway. She presses her ear against the door, holding her breath hoping to notice something abnormal in that breathing.

Why can she hear her own nervous heartbeats?

Wasn't the woman in there one of her pawns?

Wouldn't she dispose of her once she'd stop being useful?

Isn't this just a game?

''Ymir.'' She feels her mouth go dry, her heart stirs once she digests what she hears, in such a way that she can swear she hasn't experienced her before.

Desperate. Compulsive. The supplicant murmur of her goddess repeats her name over and over again.

''Ymir.'' A shiver runs up and down her body through her spine, her hands sweat as her tightly clenched knuckles turn as white a curdled milk, she starts shaking nonstop...

''Ymir!''

And, as if it were an inevitable act, she suddenly enters the room.

An angel; no other word could even dream to faithfully describe the beauty that lies behind the iron gate. A haggard angel looking into the eyes of the demon with hope and disbelief.

The demon smiles.

''Did I make you wait, my goddess?''

''Ymir...'' The small goddess murmurs hoarsely.

She doesn't know how her game ended up like this; she doesn't know at what time she crouched by her side to hold her against her chest; she doesn't know at what point the goddess clung to her back with force, as if she feared that she was going to disappear, shaking and crying nonstop.

''Ymir... Ymir... Ymir...'' She hears her murmur against her chest, as if finding comfort in each syllable of her name.

She caresses her increasingly slender shoulders carefully, as if they were so fragile that any unnecessary rubbing could make them break.

Did she lose her game? Her own game?

No. It's her game, her rules.

''Shall we go now, princess?'' No, that's not the tone she's looking for; her words, instead of presenting the burlesque tone that she wants to use at the moment, are, in fact, comprehensive murmurs.

But, despite those comprehensive and unusual words, her goddess remains silent, roaming her broad back as if trying to memorize every inch of it; both her forehead and her hands emanate an unusual heat.

''You're burning up.'' She slightly lifts her chin up to unite that sweaty forehead with her own, in fact, she is. She prepares herself to take her, in her arms if necessary, towards the nearest infirmary but, before she could move a muscle, the angelic arms of her lover attract her lips to a clumsy and feverish contact.

The situation completely baffles her. Those innocent lips roam hers with almost desperate strength; the dried up blood on her lower lip seems to please the taste of her goddess, who smiles against her lips amid the delirium.

She tries to reaffirm her concern about the need to feel that burning body; she tries to control the desire that Christa's hands unleash as they explore her neck, getting tangled in her hair; she tries to control the immense desire that has burdened her for two weeks of necessity. She tries. She really tries.

Their tongues meet while the small hands remove, almost savagely, her own shirt worn out by captivity. Christa's bare breasts are so attractive that she has trouble keeping her hands off them.

But, in the end, it's just a simple delirious whisper in her ear what causes her to drop any kind of self-control she believes to possess.

''Make me yours...''

Work can wait.

''As you wish, my goddess.''

As if on command, she sits the small goddess in her lap facing away from her, not knowing if the heat emanates from her body or from her own eager hands; she spreads her legs as her long fingers pluck the remaining pieces of fabric that still separate them from the hidden place which is to house them in their warmth.

Lust blinds her as her fingers suddenly penetrate her insides, her leather gloves imprison them as Christa's walls tighten around her between voracious gasps.

This will be a long day.

She takes a distracted look at the pocket watch that she stole a while ago from the belongings of a dead Jew. 9:00 PM.

Has she really slept this long?

The poor light from the hall is the only difference between the gloom and total darkness. Her angel sleeps against her chest, clinging tightly to her shirt, protecting her naked body with the black jacket of her uniform from the incessant cold of the cell.

She removes a blond lock from her forehead with more tenderness that she believed to be able to show; her fever is decreasing, she sleeps peacefully as if she hadn't done so in days.

She's beautiful when she sleeps; she'd never seen her sleep before. Normally, when she sneaks into her room, she finds her alerted, ready to be taken and abandoned as another prostitute, trembling on her sheets awaiting the next time.

But today is different.

Just today, lying on the frozen floor of a toxic cell, with her tiny hand in hers and her rhythmic breathing hitting her chest, she can understand the truth.

Yes, this is a game.

Yes, Christa is one of her pieces.

But she's not just another pawn; on her board, Christa Renz is the _king._

_Ironic. _She thinks with a scathing smile as she deposits a kiss on the hand she's holding in hers.

Ymir's a player, and the duty of every player is to protect her king at all costs: from other pieces, from other players.

Even from herself.


	8. Dreams

**A/N:** I just wanted to say that... it takes me a lot of emotional effort to translate this story since, well, it's kinda cruel. I usually wonder if I'm really just that sensitive or if anyone else feels this way as well. Well, these are just my useless ramblings, hope you have a nice read, this chapter is longer than usual.

**Disclaimer:** Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark

* * *

**Chapter VII - Dreams**

A strange feeling interrupts each one of her movements; the forefinger of her left hand, as delicate as she was, has been pierced by a wound that, despite apparently superficial, bleeds profusely with every second.

_Just what she needed._

She throws a spiteful look towards the clumsily cut pieces of bread that will accompany dinner tonight; more than one has been impregnated by her incessant crimson dew taking, ironically, the form of a condiment.

Was she so distracted not to notice the sharp knife grazing her skin? Yes, possibly.

_He'll like it. _She takes one of those bloody pieces and takes a gentle bite; the sweet flavor flooding her palate makes her shiver. _He's always liked my blood._

She recalls his scathing voice whispering in her ear in the shadow on an unknown room; violent, fierce, bloodthirsty like a bullet crashing into her skin.

_''It was all a dream.''_

Despite it being a fleeting thought, the memory of that voice makes her sweat so dense that it moistens the blond locks falling on her face gracefully; she touches the extension of her ankle, finding a perfect segment of skin where a chaotic scar was supposed to be.

''I believe it.'' She tells herself as she wipes off the rebellious tears that escape beyond her control, seeking security in her own convictions. ''I believe him.''

Outrageous German chants, coming from the radio, liven up her incipient trip towards the rustic central dining room; she loathes those arrogant melodies more than anything in the world but, deep in her heart, she knows that absolute silence is much worse. After all, silence reminds her of darkness.

_It was a dream. _She tells herself again, trying to maintain her weak composure. _Just a dream._

_''No.''_ Her conscience mocks her with the voice she knows so well. _''You know it wasn't.''_

Carefully, she deposits the pieces of bread in the small handmade basket at the center of an impeccable table; the exquisiteness that the smell of the prepared delicacies evokes is such that it is difficult to imagine what kind of immortal hands created them... Those of a goddess, perhaps.

The antique table, narrow and sober like the attire you can find in some seedy and vulgar tavern, awaits her in silence; only two people can enjoy a room like that one, no more.

How could something like this exist? What places leaves guests behind in a place like this?

Some time ago, when she still lived in that humble cottage on the outskirts of Munich, one of her greatest achievements was to improvise a central table of considerable size; almost daily, at any time of the day, the kids with whom she spent the best years of her life were free to sit on their respective seats.

They ate, they argued, they laughed. They enjoyed each other's presence. But now everything has changed.

_''We'll get married once this is all over.'' _The sergeant remarked with a grimace when the little goddess decided to tell him about her good memories. _''Just you and me. Why would we need anyone else?''_

She remembers that long ago, when she was living in that huge mansion in the center of Berlin, she used to slip an improvised ring around her infant finger.

_''I do.'' _She murmured to the mirror with a smile; a piece of cloth served as her veil while a vast white nightgown served as her beautiful dress.

In the blossom of childhood, the favorite pastime of little Historia Reiss was to imagine, for hours, every detail of what would someday be her wedding; her father wasn't there, nor her mom, nor her family, nor anything related to her cruel reality, just her in the arms of her new husband, happy like in a fairy tale.

Stupid, isn't it?

_Historia doesn't exist anymore._

Her beautiful blue eyes patiently search for the old pendulum clock that's inertly waiting on the opposite corner of the room.

8:52 PM. She has to hurry.

After all, her _new husband_, the twisted version of Historia's innocent fantasies, is about to arrive home after a long day of work and she, as the good _wife _she wants to be, must welcome him home properly.

A small tickling invades her heart as she allows herself to wander around freely in meaningless reflections.

_''It was just a dream, my goddess.'' _Those were the words Ymir whispered into her ear during her first night in that place. _''Just a nightmare.''_

Why does she have trouble believing him?

Why does she have trouble believing that she never attended the selection? But that she instead remained in her barracks, obediently, awaiting the return of her lover.

Why does she have trouble believing that no bullet pierced her skin? But that her Aryan companions, jealous for the unequal treatment, decided to give her a proper punishment.

Why does she have trouble believing that there never was darkness? But that it was an abominable feverish hallucination that her own mind named the _bunker. _

Is that not the truth that Ymir usually tells her? Why would he lie?

She has escaped. Does she need further proof?

Despite the smell of burning flesh that makes her choke day and night. She has finally escaped from Dachau.

_''No one escapes from Dachau.'' _Her consciousness mocks her with the scathing voice that doesn't belong to her. _''It's closer than you think it is.''_

''I did it...''

Amid listless sighs, she decides to disperse those depressing thoughts giving a brief tour through that country house that, since a few weeks ago, has become her home. As a legitimate citizen of the German Empire, she knows perfectly well that the regime grants its high commanders comfortable housing near their work areas (Literally, Dachau is closer than she thinks it is), but she never imagined that the Reich's generosity would reach such a welcoming point.

''Ymir.'' She whispers eagerly, cursing the long working hours that are required for a member of the _SS. _She feels lonely; with every step she takes, her journey becomes a terribly monotonous experience.

How could it not be when she has already traveled every inch of the place over a thousand times?

The small trips down the halls are her only source of entertainment during the lapses of loneliness covering all afternoon. No living thing, except the sergeant himself, is allowed to pass through the doorway; sometimes, when she's overwhelmed by loneliness, she watches through the window how groups of soldiers march hard in front of the house, but none of them has ever been able to throw a glance in her way.

_''It's a Ymir thing.'' _She recalls thinking at the time, shrugging.

It was only once, when she was just getting used to the rules of what would be her new home, when someone decided to knock, as if it were an emergency, on the front door.

So, as if it were the shadow of death, her innocent blue eyes met with the fierce face of Annie Leonhardt.

_''You must sign this.'' _The supervisor managed to say that time, without paying attention to who was standing in front of her. _''I don't care what you've done, but the 'incident' has...''_

_''A-Annie...''_

A murmur lost in the wind. Leonhardt, the dreaded chief supervisor of the female SS stationed in Dachau, is left speechless as she meets with her blue eyes. It was strange. It was as if she'd seen a ghost or an apparition.

_''Ymir went out to town a couple of hours ago.'' _She laughs nervously, trying to keep some seriousness in front of that fierce presence that could make her shatter in the blink of an eye. _''If you want you could wait until he...''_

_''Corpse.''_

_''Eh?''_

Leonhardt's murmur wanders restlessly through her eardrums. The supervisor, with that genuine expression of astonishment, drops the stationery from her hands as if these were useless supports.

_''Are you okay?'' _Quickly, in less than a heartbeat, Annie gathers each of the documents before leaving, with hurried steps, through the porch of the place.

That, coupled with that strange murmur, left a lot to think about in Christa's heart.

It was on that same night, as she mentally struggled to find an explanation to that irreverent situation, that Ymir came home stumbling, spitting up blood, with a smile of absolute triumph on his broken lips.

_''That bitch Reiner thought he could mess with me and get away with it.'' _He commented between mocking laughter as Renz' delicate hands took care of treating each one of his wounds with fear. _''But do not worry princess, I taught him a lesson that he won't forget...''_

That was the last time that someone got close to their door and, of course, the last time the name Reiner Braun was mentioned at that place.

_I hope he's doing all right. _

That's what she meditates about in her monotonous trip, like every coincidence destined to lead us to a terrible fate, her routine trip takes a course that she has never been allowed to imagine.

Christa, as the lady of that house, is allowed to use each one of the existing rooms as she sees fit; however, there are certain places where that freedom is restricted entirely.

The exterior, which she's not allowed to visit under any circumstances.

And, above all else, the personal study of her lover.

It's in front of the latter, in front of the mysterious door of the forbidden study, where Christa Renz abruptly stops walking.

With almost automatic movements, she slowly passes her hand along the shiny gray doorknob; she covers it slowly with her palm, finding out that they fit perfectly; her fingers grow used to it, achieving a completely natural feel; she turns it tentatively... A bit... Another bit... A bit more...

_I shouldn't. _She tells herself trying to control the curiosity influenced by loneliness.

_''Don't you want to know what I'm hiding in there?'' _Her consciousness shouts at her, for a moment it seems as if the sergeant himself is talking in her ear. _''Don't you want to know? Don't you want to know if it really was a dream?''_

To her infinite guilt, the unprotected door opens wide, hinting at the security of her lover to think that someone as submissive as she is wouldn't ever disobey a direct order. Suddenly she feels like a bad person.

But she's already inside. What else gives if she snooped around for a bit?

''It smells good.'' She blushes violently at her own unexpected comment, after all, such an intoxicating fragrance is nothing but the natural skin odor of Ymir.

She won't deny it, what she expected to find behind the forbidden door was, as the cliché of a cheap story, something which would completely destroy her mental stability: corpses, banshees, stuff like that; instead of that, the fact of finding a regular study of reading, makes her feel such relief that it's hard to explain.

''Thank God...'' She murmurs unconsciously while scouring the shelves with growing interest. Despite what may be expected, not a single book about the war is on them, not even one single copy of _Mein Kampf, _only literally classics that even she remembers ever reading in her father's library.

_He's like any other person. _She examines the neat handmade chess board resting on a desk at the back of the row of shelves, it reminds her of the one that her mother gave to her as a gift shortly before dying. _He's just following orders._

Perhaps the horrors she's had to live through has made her gone crazy, perhaps madness already germinated in her long before being captured, but one thing is certain: it'd be a lie to say she doesn't enjoy the sadistic feel of Ymir touching her skin.

She likes it how his gloved fingers caress her hair, she likes to taste his kisses with metallic taste, she likes to enjoy his bites on her body as he takes her, and especially, she likes to wake up every morning lying on his chest.

Perhaps, for the rest of the people in the world, being imprisoned for such purposes is simply a terrible humiliation (Because, after all, she's still a prisoner). But for Christa Renz, an unhappy goddess, it's the best future she could hope for.

_Everything will be better now. _She tells herself taking the piece of the _king _between her fingers with a genuine smile on her face. _After all, it was a dream._

But, as it often happens in these moments when we believe that our lives are heading in the right direction, that's when the worst tragedies can happen; the fact of clumsily stumbling against one of the chairs was the start of hers.

The beautiful piece of the king, perhaps the most beautiful one on Ymir's personal board, escapes out of her hands, starting to roll uncontrollably until a bundle of papers, that fall from the overflowing trash basket, makes it come to a stop.

_He should clean up occasionally. _Christa thinks, being forced to crawl across the dusty road until the piece is in her reach again.

''What?'' It is then when tragedy makes an appearance, taking form in an innocent newspaper clipping with a singular word in its headline: _Reiss._

''What's this?'' In an unconscious impulse (somewhat aggressive), she takes the battered piece of discarded newspaper in her hands to unfold it carefully; she finds it frighteningly easy, despite the passage of time, to recognize her father in that relatively new picture.

He seems very happy shaking hands with Adolf Hitler himself.

She knocks over the trash basket completely unconcerned that the papers or, rather, the pieces are scattering throughout the whole room. There are more, many more: small social articles about any member of the family, notes on monetary contributions to the Reich government, meetings of the main leaders of the Nazi party where her father appears. It's always the same thing. It's always the Reiss family.

Why would her sergeant have something like this?

A chill runs down her spine as she hears the roars of the known motorcycle in the distance, getting closer and closer.

''No...'' She pales, she desperately gathers every paper trying to return them all to their original position in the overflowing basket.

She can smell the smoke of the vehicle as it approaches. Quick. Quicker.

When she thinks she's about to finish, just as she hears the motorcycle stop in front of the front door, a piece of paper, slippery as no other, captures her attention completely.

This time, for the most unexpected reasons, the small world she recently created falls apart.

* * *

''Ah! What a day!'' Ymir yawns while stretching with complete laziness. With all the patience in the world he retires each one of the components of his uniform that he finds unnecessary: his weapon, his belt and, lastly, his new black coat; within that trivial task he just barely takes the time to look at her and smile. ''Oh! So there you are... Did you miss me squirt?''

Christa just watches him from across the hall, her hands trembling, her face remains in a confusing neutral expression that, coupled with her sudden paleness, gives her a miserable countenance; she fixes a messy lock of her blonde hair before daring to mutter a word.

''I'm fine...'' She mutters weakly, using all of her willpower not to let a sudden sob escape from her mouth. The soldier cocks his head slightly.

''Are you?'' The brown eyes watch her, fearsome, inquisitors, expecting any movement out of the ordinary.

_He'll find you out. _She shouts at herself while she forces herself to fake a smile.

''I'm fine.'' This time her tone is slightly louder, accompanied by a discreet fake smile that almost achieves to feign a sense of genuine well-being. ''Dinner has left me somewhat tired...''

''Oh! Just as expected from my Christa!'' He duly places his accessories on the rack before crossing the hall in long strides; he hugs her waist firmly, giving her one of those proud smiles of which she, little by little, has become accustomed to. ''I'll take the day off tomorrow.'' He strokes her hair, he plays with her long blond ponytail as he usually does in all those occasions where his busy schedule allows them to be together. ''We could spend all day together...'' She feels his lips close to her ear, whispering. ''In our room...''

''I'd like that...''

Her hands, automatically, cling to the neck of the soldier as soon as she feels how her lips are taken with the ferocity she knows so well; despite the time elapsed, it's still difficult for her to keep up with that experienced tongue that dances with hers in a frantic and irrational act.

His hug is so warm.

His lips are so warm.

His tongue is so warm.

How can he be the very same person in that picture?

How could those affective hands contribute to such a satanically macabre act?

A playful bite takes her lower lip gently, causing mysterious shocks in places that she prefers to omit; gloved hands hover over her breasts and exposed areas of her skin, they roam slowly, very slowly.

_Corpse. _Now she understands the fearful murmur of Annie that afternoon; now she understands the irrational anger of Reiner which forced him to attack his own superior; now she understands why the outside world is strictly forbidden for her.

Now she understands. Now she understands everything.

In the beginning, when she awoke wrapped in the arms of her sergeant, she liked to compare her new home with giant walls. The walls surrounded her existence isolating her, protecting her from any harm that could hide on the outside world; but as this happened, it's as if those thick walls had been torn down, and the most fearsome of those titans were devouring her now.

As if he knew her thoughts, her lower lip is taken with a little more force by the titan's teeth, who wraps his arms around her as if fearing that she would escape at any time.

''I need to sleep, squirt.'' He leans his forehead against that perfect space that exists between her neck and shoulder. ''Can we have dinner now?''

Christa pushes him away a little, giving him the most beautiful one of her fake smiles.

''I prepared something you'll love.''

It's hard, isn't it?

It's hard to see how reality crumbles before her eyes.

They walk into the kitchen, embracing, like a real marriage; those situations that used to seem like the pinnacle of happiness, immerse the heart of the blonde in a sea of uncertainty and sadness.

Her thoughts are diverted towards the woman in the picture... Poor girl; how cruel a fate awaited her for simply sharing a slight resemblance to someone she never got to meet.

There were three people in that fairly recent picture; one alive, the others not; one walking, the others gently swaying with a thick rope around their necks.

One of those figures, perhaps the most infamous one, was of Ymir smoking a cigarette, looking towards another direction as if the fact of appearing in the picture was just a gross mistake.

The next figure, the smallest of the three, had a star of David bloodily carved on her bare torso; she knew her, she was the spitting image of Historia Reiss, the girl of the wings of blood she helped out in her dreams.

And the last one... the last one had such a disfigured face to the point where only her basic features could be recognized: her long blonde hair, her beautiful Aryan skin. She was beautiful, of that there is no doubt, so beautiful that she came to have some similarity to a goddess when still alive.

Excellent impostor, she must say.

But what really made her blood run cold was, without a doubt, the message that hung from her neck, a cruel warning written with the flawless calligraphy of her sadistic lover.

_Freiheit ist mit blut bezahlt._

It wasn't a dream. Didn't those words say it?

_Freedom is paid for with blood. _

What happened to the king? You may wonder.

The piece of the king still remains on the floor of the study, next to the overflowing trash basket, facing the grim picture that she, in the crisis caused by her panic, completely forgot to hide.


	9. Game

**A/N:** Thank you for all your reviews! It serves as a great support to me. Ah yeah, ignore any minor spelling mistakes I may have made, I will try to fix them tomorrow when I have the time to do so. Enjoy the read :)

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark

* * *

**Chapter VIII - Game**

A strange and inexplicable attraction forces her to stop her hasty march across the darkened room; the dim light from the hall allows her to appreciate the slight rhythmic sway in the goddess' breathing who sleeps peacefully on her bed.

She crouches beside her to watch her carefully: her naked body covered by the thin white sheet, the tender blush spread across her perfect features from side to side; she simply adores watching her sleep.

_She's beautiful. _She plays absent-mindedly with her blonde hair, noting how much it has grown since they locked eyes for the first time, a long time ago.

She smiles, remembering her expression of terror during their first meeting, She must have given her quite a good scare that time!

With that playful smile on her face, she presses the tip of her nose, getting something similar to a childish pout in return.

How could anyone wish for the death of such a perfect being? She definitely doesn't want to know.

''You're safe.'' She murmurs tenderly in the ear of her sleeping goddess. ''It was all a bad dream.''

Bad dream, bad dream, how she wishes it had been a bad dream!

To think that performing an odyssey of such proportions has taken her only a couple of moves makes her feel proud of her own ingenuity. It was brilliant, extremely brilliant.

To think that she'd find a miserable peasant (Who nobody would miss if she went missing anyway) that could match the basic features of the overwhelming natural beauty of her perfect goddess makes her feel proud of her own luck.

_An impostor. _She kisses the soft skin on her bare shoulders making sure not to wake the woman at her side. _An impostor couldn't compare to the real one._

But of course, it was nothing that yet another good move couldn't achieve to fix:

A couple of shots here, a few cuts there... _Vualá! _The transformation resulted in a perfect impostor, ready to be publicly executed for the crimes of Christa Renz.

The pawns danced along with her intentions from start to finish with the luck of a rookie; brilliant, an extremely brilliant game.

What's more, while everyone, men and prisoners, took the bait innocently, she took all the time necessary to wash, to the limit of the unimaginable, the mind of the real goddess.

_''It was all a dream.'' _She whispered in her ear constantly. _''Just a bad dream.''_

She even went through the trouble of creating a story that would explain the wound on her ankle, a story that, surprisingly, the petite blonde bought from beginning to end; brilliant, so brilliant that she has trouble believing it.

How can one be so naïve in times like these? How can one be so naïve with the misery of a lost war knocking at your door everyday?

She gently caresses her face, gently touching those perfect lips that only she has had the pleasure of tasting. Delicious. Impeccable.

The end justifies the means, the sacrifices as much as the lies are a small price to pay to save her from any threat.

_To save myself. _She corrects indifferently.

She checks out her pocket watch lazily, looking for some _brilliant strategy_ that will stop her from leaving the warm embrace of her lover or, at least, that will justify her increasing delay. She doesn't find any.

''I have to go, my goddess.'' She kisses her lips, feeling how her small body shudders beneath her, wishing from the bottom of her heart that fearful reaction is because of her departure; for a moment, she believes to have perceived some trace of consciousness in her unusual breathing.

She watches her one last time from the doorway before leaving, she looks tired, dejected.

_Have I done something wrong? _She wonders to herself while she undertakes the tedious march, descending the stairs, to the front door.

She isn't stupid, of course she has noticed the sudden changes in the behavior of her beautiful angel: her blank stares, her distant kisses, her endless fake smiles she believes she's capable of controlling.

She seemed really happy until a couple of days ago... What happened to suddenly make her look so miserable?

Did she discover anything? Does she know something? No, that's impossible. She made sure to destroy it all: every proof, every file, every picture... Everything.

_Absolutely everything._

She shuts the front door carefully, not without first ensuring that the rear door is properly closed; no one should enter, no one should leave.

She feels observed. She throws one last look at the window of her bedroom as a kind of compulsive impulse, finding only the thin curtain waving in the wind.

_It must be my imagination._

She thoroughly checks the integrity of her uniform as she heads towards the shed in long strides; the elegant black coat is annoying on an unusual warm day such as this but, for this particular meeting, not a single imposing detail is enough.

_Let those nasty bitches know who they're dealing with. _The roar of her motorcycle contributes to focusing her disordered thoughts. For some unknown reason, on this morning she's feeling unusually more annoyed than usual, not only due to the frustration of leaving her beautiful Christa with her mysterious concerns... It's something more.

She clicks her tongue in annoyance, she knows something's wrong.

It all started with the _incident, _that infamous moment triggered a series of problematic events that have kept her in a state of permanent alert.

The first problem that presented itself was, as always, Reiner Braun...

It was a few weeks ago as she recalls, as she prepared herself to leave after the end of an exhausting day, when a sudden pain struck her jaw squarely.

_''Damn you scum!'' _She recalls to have heard the blonde soldier scream as she spit endless gushes of blood emerging from her broken lips.

Her blurred vision still allows her to admire the unusual glow of madness emanating from the look of her best soldier who, furious after witnessing the death of the fake goddess, attacked her without warning.

_''I would've protected her!'' _The crazed man shouts, being barely held back by Annie Leonhardt and Bertholdt Fubar.

The sergeant, still disoriented by the sudden punch, caresses her face in search for some complex rupture; everything seems to be in place.

_''Is that why you wanted her? Huh?'' _The powerful soldier questions in a grunt as he notices that he wouldn't be getting a reply. _''To rape her?! To kill her?!''_

_''Enough!'' _The tallest soldier of her troops begs, who everyone calls, ironically, the _Colossal Titan. _Braun watches him indignantly and, realizing that any kind of struggle would be in vain against the strength of his comrades, decides to stop fighting, sending the sergeant one last powerless murmur.

_''I would have protected her from you.''_

Ymir remains silent with her hand resting on her gun.

She would've killed him without hesitation, she would've blown his brain out with just one shot if Leonhardt hadn't intervened with that stupid urgent stationery.

Rape her? Kill her? Ymir doesn't recall ever being so angry in her entire life.

* * *

_I hope he's having fun in the bunker. _She hopes for it with the same eagerness with which she hopes to discover how long a man can survive without tasting any food. She desires it with the same eagerness with which she has desired, now more than ever, to see Reiner suffer.

She accelerates her motorcycle as the infamous concentration camp takes shape in the distance, from the distance she can observe the column of smoke from the crematories that work tirelessly day and night.

Reiner Braun, despite having caused her minor physical injuries, is the least of her problems.

The real problems, which were announced by the stationery in Leonhardt's hands that time, the ones who really put her life in danger, observe her from the top of the noble German lineage.

The big fish do not take the bait.

She crosses the threshold of Dachau unnoticed, wishing from the depths of her soul for some unfortunate incident to occur which will require her to take the day off, perhaps a stray bullet. But no, everything seems quiet: some corpses scattered on the floor, the scream of a woman in the distance, nothing out of the ordinary.

The white building that houses the headquarters of her troops rises in its usual spot, as if time or events didn't have any power over it.

_I envy it. _Ymir thinks, with a wry smile on her face, leaving her precious vehicle in the hands of one of her soldiers as she makes her way, with all the patience that her body can handle, towards the office where her unwanted guest is waiting.

_''Heil!'' _Her men greet her as she walks past them.

_''Heil Hitler!'' _She immediately responds firmly, taking all the time in the world with each one of them, with the stupid hope for a child to try to delay the inevitable.

But all efforts are useless, soon there are no soldiers left to greet or halls to cross.

She remains in silence for a few moments, standing in front of the door of that room away from the rest, she observes the shiny knob with irrational frustration.

How could someone like that exist?

How could anyone wish for the death of a goddess?

How could someone so miserable exist?

_More miserable than I. _She puts one of her hands on the doorknob tentatively, discovering that they fit perfectly. _I won't let them hurt you, Christa._

Then, only then, after a long sigh, she decides to open the door.

The real game is about to begin, she'll need her best moves from now on.

''That took you awhile, sergeant.''

Ymir shows her best haughty smile.

_Let the game begin._

''I'm glad to see you, too, pastor.''


	10. Masks I

**A/N: **Once again I thank you all for your reviews and your continued support. :)

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark

* * *

**Chapter IX - Masks I**

When the curtain opens, the actors should be ready to go onstage.

Curious analogy? Not really.

''In good spirits as always, Pastor Nick.'' The man, old enough to have a generous amount of silver fibers on his head, growls in annoyance and displeasure as he meets her sharp eyes.

_He hates me. _Ymir thinks willingly; she isn't one to judge him, after all, that dark irrational feeling is mutual.

''I'd rather cut to the chase, sergeant.'' He points at the man between impatient coughs; he doesn't like the task that has been assigned to him.

_Puppet. _She reminds herself. _He's nothing but a puppet._

_Danger. _Just that word properly defines the aura emanating from a puppet whose thick wires, connected to the powerful fingers of the high German lineage, have sent him against her like a bird of ill omen, like a cruel omen of what is to come.

_We're watching you. _His mere presence seems to scream. _We know._

_No. _She reminds herself. _Nobody knows._

She carefully closes the door leading to the hallway, making sure that nothing and nobody gets in the way of their scheduled meeting. With the caution of a hunter, she approaches her seat behind the old desk that prettifies her hot office.

_How lucky. _She's relieved. For a moment, she imagined that the man with the distressed face would have the boldness to take her place.

It's difficult for her to hide her irrational hatred towards that man; she would've preferred, above all things, to draw her gun to blow out, without any remorse, the brains of that monster who calls himself _the Servant of God. _

What kind of abominable monster wishes for the death of a goddess?

But no. Above her uncontrollable desire to spill large amounts of unclean blood, she needs to interpret her role as perfect as she can; shake his hand instead of breaking his neck, that's the challenge she needs to face this time.

How many masks will she need for this unwanted play? One? Two? All of them?

It's impossible to know.

''To cut to the chase? We haven't seen each other in so long and all you want to do is to cut to the chase?'' She places her elbows on the desk, quietly resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. ''Wouldn't you at least want to play a couple of chess games?'' Maybe she'll get lucky now.

The man, looking disapprovingly at her, shakes his head slowly.

''I'm afraid I'll have to reject your offer, but the matter that concerns us is another.'' He looks up with a serious expression. ''They have sent me to talk about the bastard child.''

A fast movement. A very fast one.

''Strong words for a man of God, don't you think?'' Ymir says grimly. Her eyes, fierce and unstoppable behind a mask of cold cordiality, pierce right through her guest, forcing him to swallow down an inconsiderable amount of saliva.

_Christa._

The sudden fury enveloping her soul like a fire starts to disconcert her; for a brief moment it is difficult for her to continue with her brilliant act.

''I do not think so, sergeant.'' The man clarifies with a slightly embarrassed tone. ''Bastards are children of sin, fruits of the betrayal running through their veins, that's what they are.''

''An undesired girl who abandons everything she knows on her own!'' Ymir points out with a sigh. ''Don't you think it's unfair that she has to pay for the sins of her lecherous father?''

_Touché. _Nick frowns with unjustified indignation; for a moment, the furious grinding of his teeth becomes so potent that it becomes audible in the distance.

By cutting the threads, the puppet falls on its own accord.

''What a disgrace! An honorable man like Mr. Reiss need not answer for the sins of a child of a filthy woman!''

''A filthy woman whom he himself dragged to his bed.'' Immersed in her brilliant act, she allows herself to let another sigh escape. ''Where's the honor in wishing for the death of his own daughter?''

The pastor, with a darkened expression, remains silent for a few seconds, getting lost in secretive thoughts that only he can know.

_He won't fall. _Ymir thinks. _He hasn't fallen._

''Indeed it is a filthy wish, sergeant.'' He responds after that brief silence. ''However, we have reasons to believe that you have contributed to make it happen.''

_Here it comes. _Ymir smiles with feigned pride, searching through the documents resting under a rough clipboard made of bone on her desk; ironic detail, she feels the need to add.

''You think so?'' She hands the man a small piece of paper, one-quarter the size of the average document where it was waiting to be found; she knows of the horrors that it contains, she knows of the grim homicidal picture in full detail and its atrocious message. ''Let me remind you that I am a man of my word, pastor.''

''May I ask what you have done with the evidence?''

''The body?'' She asks with a crooked smile. ''You know how they are, too much time in the outdoors makes them smell of death.''

''I see.'' The religious man puts on a pair of wornout antique eyeglasses to examine the picture carefully. He turns it around. He touches it. He makes sure that it's actually real. ''A very interesting warning, sir.''

''I happened to have the chance to do it.'' The sergeant says resting her back on the back of her chair completely. ''The girl had guts... Perhaps too much.''

''She got it from her father, that's for sure.'' He clarifies with a smile, as if it was him who delivered the seed that gave birth to the young disfigured lady in the photograph. ''Her mother was just a bitch, maybe that's why her life ended in such a... Sudden way.''

''Such a horrible tragedy...''

She hates him. She feels her hands trembling imperceptibly, out of control. But the curtain is still open. Keeping her hold on her mask is all that remains; ignoring the abominable doctrine of those with whom she'd wished never to have anything to do with is her only opportunity.

_It's because of them. _She reminds herself with overflowing anger. _It's because of them that I'm here._

The show must go on.

''You have certainly done a great job, sergeant.'' Nick puts the photograph back on the surface of the desk, without losing the expression of permanent anxiety that has always characterized him. ''Even the warning is done masterfully.''

''I hope this recovers the cordiality in my relationship with the Reiss House.'' Her acting forces her to add a genuine hint of seriousness to those words.

''All would literally be going well if you had not ordered your men to capture her.'' The religious man points out sullenly. ''You were only ordered to look another way while everything was taken care of. The time of her seclusion was worrying for us.''

''I offer you my most sincere apologies.'' She lets out a long sigh as if she was interpreting the most realistic of the Greek tragedies. ''But my men, unlike you and me, are always loyal to the interests of the Führer; they couldn't allow a beautiful Aryan girl to be outraged in such a way, pastor.''

''So, I must assume that the bastard child's purity was left intact?''

''Let's say that I took the liberty of claiming that privilege for myself.''

''Killing many men to sleep with a bastard?'' Nick asks with surprise. ''It is difficult for me to imagine such a thing, my lord.''

''They refused to deliver her willingly to one of my best soldiers.'' She can feel the poison running down her throat, causing her a pleasurable as well as an incomparable sensation. ''Reiss needs to hire men who don't tear off a girl's clothes at the first opportunity.''

''Did you not do the same?'' Ymir smiles proudly.

''I have my charms, pastor.'' Nick sighs with resignation.

''A bitch just like her mother.'' He says dismissively as he awkwardly gets up from his seat. ''Those men were mere unworthy monsters that we hired in seedy taverns.''

''Monsters, my lord?''' She asks with a carefully rehearsed fake smile. ''Conspiring in the death of a girl does not make us all into monsters?''

Ymir abandons her seat impatiently, directing the man in his sudden way towards the door leading towards the crowded hallway. A part of her, totally independent of the emotional mask she needs to maintain, sighs in relief.

She opens the door wide open; once the man sets foot outside of the room, she'll be completely free.

_And her, too. _

''Our deal has concluded, sergeant.'' He raises a hand, waiting for a handshake that comes in a heartbeat.

Shaking his hand instead of breaking his neck; fortunately, her act went better than she had expected it to be.

The curtain begins to fall and, before long, she'll be able to remove the grotesque mask that disturbs her so much.

But no. The play, despite all expectations, has an unexpected epilogue.

Without warning, in a show of greatness of which she had never witnessed before, the religious man observes her with a smile, with such a soulless expression that it seems impossible to her that this is the same sullen man with whom she was conversing moments ago.

''In that case, you are no monster, sir.''

An imperceptible shiver runs down the spine of the sergeant once she gets the hidden meaning behind those words, as if suddenly, that bird of ill omen had pierced her skin with bad intentions.

''You found a good impostor, I must say.'' He withdraws his hand from any act of cordiality.

_Touché. _

''We know.''

And so, with an extremely tragic end, the curtain closes.

Once she closes the door, she leans her suddenly weak body against it, massaging her temples to undo the useless mask of cordiality she was wearing just a few moments ago, in rare occasions, she seriously wondered to herself which one of those masks was the original one.

She need not rush. She inhales and exhales deeply, feeling the sweltering heat that the delicate breeze from the open window cannot handle.

She must remain calm.

_Christa._

She calculates the time with the precision that can only be obtained from an extended period of military service, she mentally counts the amount of steps required to walk down the long road leading to the outside square; she awaits the minutes with a heavy heart, getting ready to run once the limited time created by her own mind is reached.

Suddenly, it is as if the seconds needed minutes to move their spot.

What had been her mistake? What evidence could she have left behind to have been discovered?

_I destroyed everything. _She vehemently reminds herself. _Absolutely everything._

Perfect. She discreetly peeks through the blinds of her office, her gaze meets the unusually large group of men who await their leader in formation; despite their black uniforms, similar to those of her own regiment, she doesn't recognize any of them; they're complete heavily armed strangers, awaiting orders from Pastor Nick.

The sweat, that covered the entirety of her face, is replaced by a new and colder layer.

''Christa...''

She doesn't know when exactly she started running out of the building; she doesn't know how many of her soldiers she had to push aside between threats in her hasty rush towards her beloved vehicle; it's only been a few hours since her arrival at the camp but, for her, it's been an eternity.

She accelerates her motorcycle to the limits of its capacity, watching the landscape passing her like a blurred lightning; awaiting the moment when her beautiful country house becomes visible in the distance.

How did they find her out? How?

_It's Reiss. _She tells herself trying to focus on the road. _That sly fox has always been watching me._

Since her eyes met with those of the goddess for the first time, since forever.

_''Are you scared?'' _Her soul asks with a hateful voice.

She doesn't respond. She has no awareness of space, much less of time, all of which her soul can perceive with growing relief is the unmistakable shadow of her lonely home. It was a mistake, bringing her right there was a mistake.

_''Doesn't it scare you? Doesn't it scare you to open the door and not find her?''_

No, she mustn't answer, she mustn't give her soul such complacency. With speed she considered to be impossible, she disastrously parks her motorcycle inside the old shed, getting rid of her helmet and attire with the same speed.

_She's my piece. _She reminds herself again and again, while she walks down the road leading to the front door in long strides, making sure that the locks are closed properly. _Nothing else._

Her own voice, the titan hidden away in the depths of her soul, laughs maliciously.

_''Liar.''_

She desperately searches on the ground floor, searching in each one of the rooms connected to the main hallway; uncontrollable beats envelop her heart as she discards each one of the locations.

Something is wrong. She isn't there to welcome her.

''Christa?'' She asks in anxious hesitation; everything seems to be in place but, in turn, everything seems to be in chaos.

_''Bad move.'' _The titan yells at her to draw her attention as she desperately ascends the stairs leading to the bedroom. _''Everything you've done has been nothing but a bad move.''_

_I did it for myself. _She walks down the hallway with forced calmness. _''For my own sake.''_

_''Or perhaps it's just another one of your masks.''_

''Christa?'' She repeats once again with a general tremor as she enters the darkened room; she touches the switch carefully, fearing at every moment what her eyes could find.

_Now. _She reprimands herself. _Do it now or you never will. _

The moment the light dazzles her eyes, the mask of serenity that she had been struggling to keep falls to the ground with overwhelming ease, her face breaks into a panicked grimace that, even with all her willpower, she cannot handle. She falls to her knees.

Empty bed. Empty room.

_Christa..._


	11. Masks II

**A/N:** I'm so sorry that I made all of you wait so long! College got in the way and well, you know, the usual stuff happened, etc, etc. I promise I'll work faster from now on. Once again, I thank you all for your continued support and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoy translating it.

**Warning: **Lime

**Disclaimer:** Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Star

* * *

_The moment the light dazzles her eyes, the mask of serenity that she had been struggling to keep falls to the ground with overwhelming ease, her face breaks into a panicked grimace that, even with all her willpower, she cannot handle. She falls to her knees._

_Empty bed. Empty room._

_Christa..._

**Chapter X - Masks II**

''This can't be.'' She murmurs with difficulty, despite having recovered the ability to speak, reason itself seems to be escaping from her hands. She hits the floor with all the strength she gained from all her years in military training: one time, one more time, until the longed crimson liquid escapes from her knuckles to irretrievably get lost between the cracks of the wooden planks that make up the floor. ''This can't be!''

She can hardly believe it, let alone imagine it. They've captured the king. Her king.

_Checkmate._

''Damn it!''

This time, both her fists collide against the wood in a dry roar, staining her surroundings with the evidence of a wound that will take its time to heal; she hadn't noticed the thick threads moving around her until they were wrapped around her neck.

Did she lose? Did she really lose?

_No._

Her mask, depicting a theatrical expression of panic, is replaced by one of pure irascible anger, she just barely has the willpower to quickly get up to her feet.

She spitefully clenches her fists. Shaking like a rabid dog who's about to attack. She's completely furious, more furious than she's ever been before.

_I never lose._

It takes her less than the time required to organize a fearsome symphony of erratic and unbearable roars echoing within the narrow walls; things come, things go. Any object of sufficient size to accommodate a human being will be brutally inspected by her growing insanity.

Growling. Hitting. Destroying. The sound of death.

''Christa!'' She shouts with all the strength that her lungs can withstand. ''Don't try to play with me!''

_She isn't here. _The little common sense she had left points out while she brutally knocks over the closet with just one kick; the sergeant, deaf to her own observation, breathes out threats tirelessly. It isn't the time to keep calm.

''If you don't come out now I'll put a damn leash on you!'' She enters the bathroom like a hungry predator in a desperate hunt, shredding down the curtain imprinted with grotesque floral patterns that, in other times, had the task of concealing the shower.

She should search.

''What the hell do you think you're doing?! Christa!'' She immediately abandons the upper rooms to continue her frantic search downstairs. The treads, damaged by time, tremble helplessly under the weight of her furious footsteps. ''Do I disgust you this much?!''

No. She's not like that.

She knows her. She knows that her arduous search will be in vain.

She knows, she simply does.

_No!. _She desperately reprimands herself as she rams down the old pendulum clock which looks after the house in eternal rest from a forgotten corner near the dining room. _She must be around here somewhere._

Her entire body, tense as never before, is completely soaked in a uniform layer of cold sweat; she got rid of her thick coat along her search someplace, her jacket probably met the same fate.

She searches in the kitchen with similar results. Nothing.

No sign of a struggle. No places to hide. Nothing.

_This can't be..._

''This is your last warning!''

She unsheaths her fully loaded flawless gun with trembling hands, she bites her lips while she shoots blindly and hits, with excellent aim, the glass of one of the windows of the residence.

''If you don't come out now, I...! I will...!''

_Will you kill her? _The dark side of her soul who she calls, spitefully, the _titan _laughs at her maliciously. _Do you have the guts to hurt her?_

She remains silent, meditating in discord, breathing heavily while a tiny and imperceptible plume escapes from the barrel of the gun.

''No.'' She whispers with disguised surprise. ''I would never...''

Defeated. Hurt. She throws her gun down before resignedly sitting down on one of the many useless gadgets she had massacred minutes ago; the chaos all around her reminds her of a battlefield, where the only contenders are herself and loneliness.

''Christa...'' _Regrettable. _There is no other words to describe the sound she barely recognizes as her own voice.

What has happened? What has she done?

She tries to convince herself that there's nothing she can do; she tries to convince herself that it was just an insignificant loss in her exciting life; she tries to convince herself that everything, absolutely everything, is over.

She will need a new mask.

_You have none. _The horrible voice reminds her morbidly. _You're defenseless._

''I don't need her.'' She corrects the voice aloud, as if she was arguing with a real person. ''I can protect myself from Reiss... I don't need a naïve girl to...''

_You're lying._

''Why would I?!'' She replies indignantly, holding her head with both hands in an attempt to quell the macabre inner monologue.

_Your goal was never to run away from Reiss._

She remains silent, watchful, waiting for her mind to show its cards, waiting for the course of her reflections getting nearer to dementia.

_Your goal is to protect Christa. _The monster laughs sarcastically. _Right?_

She stands up all of a sudden, as if those thoughts had awakened a mystery that her heart believed forgotten for several years.

She can not deny it. She can not fight it. It's completely true.

From the time she vehemently ordered her men to capture her... No... It started way before that time, long before joining the _SS_, long before she started wearing that stupid mask.

Ever since they first met in the dark and untamed streets of Munich, in a miserable childhood surrounded by danger and loneliness.

_A goddess. _She remembers thinking in those years, a goddess she had promised to protect from the shadows.

And she did so.

Always.

Forever.

She carefully wipes the sweat off her face, once again savoring the sweet taste of sanity.

_It's my fault. _She tells herself as she massages her temples with regret.

She knew it. She should havenever left her alone; she should have never left her side after what happened last night.

She recalls everything with relative clarity. She recalls suddenly waking up from a dreamless sleep, driven by a mysterious warmth that seemed to envelop part of her face as a growing threat.

A good soldier, specially those who have the honor of belonging to the personal guard of the Supreme Leader, should be prepared for any unexpected situation; it was that, or a simple survival instinct, which lead her to turn sharply, subjecting her aggressor under her own body.

_''I-I'm sorry.''_ A muted voice murmurs.

Ymir, who wanders down the narrow line that separates the dream world from wakefulness, blinks a few times before fully recognizing the delicate appearance of her aggressor: blonde, beautiful sky blue eyes that watch her in confusion.

_''Damn it!'' _She says with a stupid smile while she rests her weight on the small body of Christa Renz. _''That gave me a scare!''_

The girl remains silent, merely stroking the brown hair of the sergeant.

_''You know?'' _She whispers mischievously. _''If you wish to kiss me you should simply ask.''_

She laughs. She laughs with that malicious air with which she enjoys torturing her innocent goddess with big crimson explosions on her face; it's because of that, because of that usual habit, why she's caught by extreme surprise when the thin arms of the small goddess wrap around her neck gingerly.

Surprise? Disbelief? Happiness?

How to define the feeling that cause a woman like Ymir to blush like the purest of maidens?

She manages to merge herself in silence, closely observing the totality of the frail body partially hidden by the shadows: she's naked, stripped of all hindering sleepwear, flatly refusing to cross looks.

Christa clings to her neck tightly, forcing her towards her until their lips meet in a clumsy fleeting touch.

_''Make me yours...''_

That breathy whisper in her ear, completely alien to what she expected to hear, steals every word from her lips.

_Something is wrong. _She thinks to herself as she feels Renz' breathing against her shoulder. She knows her well enough to know that she'd never say something like that.

One of the goddess' knees, as if it has life on its own, manages to seep into her crotch, rubbing it with gentle movements that manage to snatch an imperceptible sigh from her lips.

She isn't like this. She has never dared to touch her. Never.

Therefore, those sudden pleasant chills are more than the brunette can handle.

_''As you order, my goddess.'' _She smiles widely while she claims those sweet lips, as if it were a privilege that only she can have access to, her hands hungrily caress the naked sides of her lover.

Why? Why is she behaving like this?

_''You're beautiful.'' _She murmurs amid the kiss before allowing her tongue to enter her mouth in search of its dance partner; soon they'll dance together in a frenzy atmosphere.

She doesn't care about her reasons. She doesn't mind those contradictory hands travelling up and down her back with incessant tremors.

She's simply not interested.

She goes down to her breasts, leaving a trail of anxious bites behind, discreetly casting an anxious hand to the moist privacy of her prisoner, slowly roaming it with the tips of her fingers.

_It's a mask. _She tells herself while she bites one of her breasts with some force, immediately getting a strangled sob that is in no way related to pain. _It's all an act._

From the moment she adopted a false name, her whole life turned into a play.

_We're not very different after all._

_''It's time.'' _She whispers hoarsely to her victim, obtaining a shy kiss in response who gets more and more intense as her long fingers penetrate her insides, that clumsy kiss feels like the best she's ever had.

Christa's walls close around her, greedily capturing the quick thrusts of her fingers, which synchronize miraculously with her glorious moans, for a moment, that erotic melody makes Ymir forget all reasoning.

She surrenders to her easily. She surrenders to the fact of pleasing her every whim.

She surrenders to the feeling becoming one with another person produces.

She knows something is wrong, she feels it in the tears soaking her neck, in the anxious tremors and, of course, she completely feels it in that bizarre nocturnal request that, despite it's context, begins to feel like a farewell.

But it matters little now when she can feel how all the masks break with her ferocious sway; the sweat of her goddess permeates her skin as her gasps drown in her neck. Harder. Faster.

She feels her light scratches, proud like war wounds, which make her feel that, including her, will come without any physical contact.

_I wonder, Christa. _She thinks with some sort of nostalgia. _If you enjoy this as much as I do. _

It is a vicious bite on the base of her neck, the result of the peak of pleasure of the little blonde, what triggers the chain reaction, leading her to such an intense feeling that it is difficult for her to understand how it came almost out of nowhere.

Only Christa makes her feel that way. So alive. So free.

They don't pronounce a single word, they only emit ecstatic gasps.

Once again she rests her weight on the goddess, receiving an almost motherly embrace as their bodies are fused; she buries her face between the breasts of the petite girl while the latter caresses her brown hair lovingly.

_''Somehwhat rude, don't you think?'' _She murmurs with a smile while she checks her neck searching for any severe injury.

_''I'm sorry.'' _The petite blonde whispers almost inaudibly. The sergeant smiles scathingly until her eyes meet the incessant streams of tears flowing from Renz. _''I-I'm sorry...''_

That painful expression was more than enough to sever every trace of her lust.

_''Everything is all right.'' _She kisses her forehead, lifting her up to gently place her on her chest in the position they normally sleep in. _''It's not that big of a deal.''_

Christa caresses the folds of her shirt trying to hold back the tears that keep flowing from her eyes endlessly.

_Something is wrong._

_''I'm sorry.'' _She hovers over her face to gently kiss each and every one of her freckles; the tears keep flowing in silence. _''I'm sorry...''_

So fragile. So depressing.

_It's a mask. _Ymir thinks before capturing her in her arms in an attempt to soothe her pain. _It's a mask that is collapsing._

* * *

''She's gone.'' She murmurs with an empty voice while she wanders around the disaster that is now her home; the amount of chaos she caused in just an hour is surprising.

She cracks up a wry smile: this is exactly how the scene of a kidnapping should look like.

She should have guessed it before. She should have guessed that something was wrong since she offered her the first of many fake smiles, but a sweet lie is always more comforting that the cruel reality.

She was saying goodbye, that last encounter was her farewell.

_You dragged her into this world. _Her own voice reminds her, the true voice of her sanity.

''I wanted to be with her one last time.'' She replies seriously. ''That was all.''

How selfish is a human allowed to be? To what limit can one depend on greed to seek our own good?

Because it was greed, not the duty, which forced her to drag her into that world blood and death.

A fleeting memory, extremely inconvenient, comes to her head like an unexpected beam of light in the middle of the darkness: a beautiful girl, fragile like no other, standing on her tiptoe to caress her disheveled (And rather short) brown hair.

They were alone. No family or friends. Alone.

_''Everything is going to be all right.'' _The girl murmurs with the voice of an angel. _''We'll be fine.''_

Because such a deep feeling can not emerge out of nowhere.

No. It's always something older, deeper.

_''Yes.'' _She remembers to have replied at that time. _''We'll be fine.''_

But, as much as she wants to, she can not guarantee it.

''Stupid girl.'' She mutters to herself amid scathing laughter; for a moment she wishes to go back in time to show herself to the real world.

Soon, while she takes list of each object that needs to be repaired, a fleeting and unexpected thought floods her mind; it's stupid and improbable... But...

All is not lost, her last hope is a few steps away from there, just across the corridor.

_The study._

She runs towards the door amid frantic heartbeats, suddenly it feels as if the air around her presses against her chest to make her falter. The last hope, the forbidden room is her last hope.

Her hands tremble on the knob, It's been weeks since the last time she entered that place and, certainly, the current circumstances do not favor any kind of reunion.

_Do it. _Her mind shouts in desperation. _What are you waiting for?!_

''The worst...''

The smell of the old pages warmly welcome their master in complete solitude. Abandoned and depressed, just as she recalls.

She's not there. She's never been there.

_Are you sure?_

Something is off, she can perceive a scent in the air that wasn't there before; she sniffs her own shirt with curiosity worthy of one of the many hunting dogs she loves so much.

_There's something here._

She scans each quadrant of the small office with her eyes, even though she doesn't really need to do it; she knows, she knows where to find what she's looking for.

And she's right.

On the chessboard that she fails to get used to, just underneath the piece of the king, she finds an austere white note with something written on there, the writing is messy as if it were written in a hurry.

She sniffs it like a hunting dog, she sniffs her shirt again.

The note only has two words:

_I'm sorry._

* * *

She keeps watching the house from the distance. It's been about an hour since she heard the shot, suddenly filling her mind with despair.

What happened? Will he be all right?

_Ymir._

Her beautiful blue eyes, without control or any kind of explanation, begin to shed overflowing rivers of unconscious tears; she wants to run, she wants to run towards the house and envelop her sergeant in a warm embrace, making sure that he's completely fine.

But she's afraid.

What if that scandal is the result of anger? And what if he takes her life once their eyes meet?

It's ironic. For a long time she denied that the man was a monster, she denied it with such ferocity that it is now hard for her to believe otherwise.

He would never hurt her. She knows.

_A mask. _She tells herself amid a sigh. _It's as if he wore a mask._

She hears the steps getting closer but she doesn't flinch, not until a pressure invades her left arm; a paradoxically gentle pressure.

''Let's go.''

Christa merely nods in silence. She has made a decision.


	12. Defeat

**A/N:** In the manga Berick's name was recently changed to Marcel. In the original fanfic the author still calls him Berick/Berik/Berrick but I decided to change it to his actual name _Marcel. _

Another thing is that Reiner is confused by Ymir's gender so he switches from he to she. It may confuse you a bit but now you know.

I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

**Disclaimer: **Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark.

* * *

**Chapter XI - Defeat**

''Get in the car.'' The man murmurs with ill-concealed impatience while he points at his beautiful black Mercedes that he recently purchased; his conscience, a decaying ghost of what once was, slaps him hard across the face, filling him with guilt and indignation.

_It was necessary. _He tells himself, recalling the pathetic face of the wealthy man whom he had taken such beauty away from; it's true, that conceited slut of large fortune should thank him for sparing her life.

He carefully counts the seconds, each one of them seems like an eternity. A dangerous eternity.

''Hurry up!'' He shouts exasperated, causing a fearful gasp to the innocent girl who accompanies him in those moments. ''We don't have all day.''

The moderation in his tone deservedly receives a discreet affirmation. The blonde, who next to someone as muscular as he is looks like a porcelain doll, walks almost automatically until she reaches one of the back doors of his grandiose transport.

''No.'' He tells the girl once he realizes what she's trying to do. ''The front seat.''

The answer, once again, is manifested in the form of a silent affirmative nod, to the rhythm of the dull crack produced by the passenger seat as it opens; a part of him, the one that listens to his wounded pride break, exhales relieved to see her obey.

It's over. It's all over.

He puts the infamous hat with the emblem of a skull belonging to the _Schutzstaffel _on his short hair, looking back one last time at the country house lit by the light of the midday sun.

Should he be happy? Yes. He should.

''Sink, scum.''

Not a single trace of happiness shows on his hard features during the short walk leading to the driver's seat; he feels weak, so weak that he allows himself to fall heavily on his seat before turning on, with obvious difficulty, the complex mechanism of the machine.

How long has it been since he last slept properly? Days? Weeks? Months?

_Don't bother yourself with it. _He reprimands himself with certain strictness, making more use than was necessary of that incorrect way of thinking in which only the truly strong men can survive, barely, in a place designed to destroy the soul.

Because, of course, the Bunker was created to destroy.

_Not this time. _

He accelerates right away, holding his breath as he tries, with all his might, to rebuild the trust he lost long ago, praying internally for the noise of the engine to cover its presence.

_To flee. _He savours every syllable with indescribable contempt bathed in defeat, just as the coward he's never had the misfortune to be would do.

Yes, they have escaped; they underestimated the infinite omnipotence of time and the latter lashed out at them viciously like any other animal would do.

They finally overcame it, but for some reason, on his lips no other flavor but that of defeat remains.

''Tell me.'' He raises his voice to draw the attention of the girl who's currently curled up on the passenger seat and, if possible, to dispel his own undesirable thoughts. ''Do you want to go back home?''

Christa Renz, his beautiful angel with broken wings, hesitates before nodding shyly.

_That's it? _With some fear, accompanied by insecurity, he raises his hand to awkwardly dry some of the many tears running down her perfect Aryan features; the current situation, outside all limits of common good, has started to make him feel uncomfortable.

''He'll never hurt you again.''

Silence. The noise produced by the splashing of the muddy ground at the mercy of the tires is the only thing that lessens the sudden tension that those five words, which were originally conceived as a consolation, caused between the two. She bites her lower lip before allowing herself to talk.

''He would never hurt me.''

He withdraws his hand quickly, as if that smooth skin were wrapped in a cloak of flames, he stops the car so abruptly that the inertia makes their bodies shoot a few inches forward. He growls, his patience is running out.

''Are you for real?'' He asks with a wry smile as his imposing soldier hands suddenly uncover part of the beautiful skin hidden behind his shimmering white shirt; numerous brands of different sizes, shapes and colors spread along his neck as a clean canvas. ''For real?''

''I'm completely serious.'' This time, it's she who removes her hand gently, wiping away her own tears and trying hard not to shed more. ''He's never done anything I don't allow him to.''

''Has he never hurt you?''

''No.'' She lies.

''Has he never made you cry?''

''No.'' She lies again.

''Then.'' He turns his eyes back on the road in front of him, feeling how defeat cheerfully knocks at his door. ''Why are you here?''

He pushes the accelerator with more force than he has ever used so far, watching the weed of the plains past him at high speed; the fact that an innocent goddess like her has the slightest of affection for a detestable demon like him is so sacrilegious that it makes him want to vomit.

She just stubbornly watches the scenery through the window. He has to admit it, he has never been particularly interested in girls, that recklessly foolish attitude powerfully managed to draw his attention to the limit of the unexplained.

To the edge of madness, he should say.

_''She's alive.'' _He perfectly recalls having heard those words aloud from his companion in the darkness of that stifling cell, in one of the many evenings where she used to secretly bring him several pieces of stale bread. _''She isn't dead yet.''_

_'Yet' _was the word that led him to search for her himself.

At first he doubted it. Was it a trap? A placebo to offer him well-being in that deadly confinement?

No. Annie Leonhardt has never been particularly friendly.

He carefully watches the scene that the impeccable windshield allows him to appreciate; small country buildings begin to take form on the horizon in a virtually uninhabited plain.

He escaped from Dachau for the first time a few weeks ago, killing one of the incompetent guards guarding his cell with his own hands, stealing his uniform to infiltrate a society where those useless pieces of cloth made him into a god.

He didn't tell anything to the temperamental Annie (Being honest, she probably suspects something), much less to the dangerously understanding Berth. No, he has to solve this on his own.

After all, Reiner Braun is no coward.

_I will return. _He tells himself with complete certainty, recovering that mighty face shaped by his years as a warrior. _I will not abandon my comrades._

''You know?'' He speaks up in a calmer tone. ''If you don't speak to me I'll have no choice but to drive all over the city.'' Christa, who until then had something resembling an innocent pout on her face, sighs in resignation before coolly replying to that comment.

''I will when deemed necessary.''

It's ironic. Sad and ironic. It had taken him little or no effort to convince her to follow him to the safety of Munich the first time; on that day, when his trembling fist knocked on the door of the forbidden property, he received such a vehement response that it made his heart flood with warmth.

_''You're safe.'' _The girl murmured while she threw herself into his arms as if she had escaped from the underworld. _''Thank God.''_

At that moment, feeling how the concerned tears soaked his chest, he simply decided to return that unexpected hug on the threshold of an unknown place, just to convince her to leave all her reality behind.

_''No one will ever hurt you again.'' _He recalls how he stroked her silky blonde hair like an extremely valuable treasure, to which he allowed himself to be defenseless for the first time. _''I'm here.''_

That was a week ago.

However, during that brief period of time, the thirst for freedom of the blonde had become so radically unpleasant she can barely disguise it, as if some circumstance that occurred recently caused her to change her mind at the last minute.

_She doesn't know how to say no. _He thinks out of a sudden, taking that argument as highly logical. _It's just that._

The bittersweet taste of his feelings is like a weak siege before giant walls; what she desires most right now is to go back to him, to go back into the arms of a monster.

_Monster? _He ponders deeply, carefully watching the detestable swastika resting on his left arm like a parasite. _All of us are._

He passes by the last of the laggard barns before approaching the first of many clusters of humble dwellings that delimit the urban area of Munich; in a few moments, which is much less time than he would like, they will officially enter the city.

How much time has passed by? Enough for the sun to hide away partially.

_Will he follow us? _He asks himself anxiously, receiving only silence in reply. Silence in his mind. Silence in his car. Everything around him is silence.

''Tell me.'' He looks at the goddess for a few moments with a unique serene expression that he feels capable of controlling at will. ''What's Ymir like with you?''

Christa watches him for a few moments, colors cover her face even before trying to answer.

''He's... He was... Sweet to me.'' She sighs loudly, trying with all her might to hold back the tears that she, obviously, wants to shed. ''Sweet in his own way...''

''By murdering innocent people?'' He listens clearly as the goddess holds her breath. ''What a way to prove how sweet he is.''

''You also do.'' _Touché. _A drop of cold sweat slides gently down the forehead of the blonde man. ''You all do.''

You all. He knows perfectly well what those words are referring to; the smell of burning flesh permeated in their clothing is quite a routine for him.

''Killing Jews is our obligation.'' The insensitive harshness in his voice, while not being something particularly unusual, manages to surprise him. ''Not our pleasure.''

Christa looks at him challenging.

''Then it is also his obligation.'' Her voice is firm, in such a way that it's hard to believe she's the same person who was curled up into a ball not too long ago. ''He's always been by my side.''

''Because he himself dragged you to that place.'' He can hear the rapid heartbeats of the blonde once she gets the hidden meaning behind those words.

Silence. Again there was silence.

_I said too much. _Deep down, where his pride doesn't have access to, he hits himself for being so insensitive.

''He's dangerous for you.'' He says in a much softer tone than before, once again stroking the extension of her beautiful blonde hair. ''You'll be better off at home... With your friends...''

Christa laughs reluctantly.

''I don't even know if I have friends.''

The rest of the trip passed in complete silence. The tension could be felt in the air; he drives while she absently watches the landscape around her.

_Damn it. _He looks at the time with criminal impatience, remembering he needs to return to his cell before anyone, especially the sergeant, notices his absence; he's certain that the prime suspect behind Christa's disappearance will be him.

The Nazi party flags adorn every frame of each window within the boundaries of the famous city of Munich that, despite the passing of the years, seems as unfamiliar to him as when he first set foot there.

_He'll kill me. _Reiner thinks with no emotion showing on his face, taking a quick look at the position of the sun. _He just needs an excuse. _

His thoughts, without coherent explanation, are diverted to the three kids with whom he enlisted in the troops of the Reich years ago. Those to whom he had promised that, someday, they would happily return to their hometown.

Because they've never been soldiers. They are warriors.

''Thank you... Reiner.'' Suddenly the goddess at his side murmurs. Simply hearing his name being uttered by those delicate lips makes him shudder to the limit that his dignity allows him to, almost making him lose track of the vehicle he's driving. ''You're right... I'll be fine...''

He doesn't make eye contact, he doesn't dare to; he knows perfectly well that each one of those words is a placebo designed to reassure him. She cannot lie.

He takes a sharp turn to the right to enter a humble lined avenue of thrift stores with broken windows; if the misery that the Treaty of Versailles sowed in Germany would take shape, it would probably look like this place.

_Marcel. _He recalls his name with some sadness. Similar words had been offered to him by the boy days after being assigned to Dachau, before Ymir took care of breaking their sanity, so brilliantly that he had shown bare-knuckle why he held a title of honor.

His self-destructive kindness made him a scapegoat for a cruel regime he never believed in; Ymir made him into a pawn of his game, sacrificing him as such.

Marcel hanged himself with his own belt, within the cell he was confined in after refusing to skin a newborn Jewish baby alive.

It's something Reiner can never forgive.

After the death of his comrade, Bertholdt was forced to complete the grim task of his predecessor; if the Colossal Titan didn't possess such impressive mental stability, he would have been the next in the long list of fallen pawns in Ymir's history.

_Marcel wasn't made for this world. _He takes one of Christa's small hands within his before she has a chance to react, kissing her palm with a cool gesture that is far from everything he wishes to convey. _Much less her._

''What path should I take?'' Christa looks at him with a calmer expression, nodding slightly.

''Two blocks to the left.''

An angel in the middle of hell. It's all that can describe that scene where he first met Christa Renz; beautiful, helpless, surrounded by death and broken glasses. Perhaps it was that sense of holiness which prompted his hardened warrior's heart to soften for a moment.

_Marry me. _He recalls recklessly thinking in that critical moment, when the petite goddess, with her torn clothes soaked in blood and tears, fearfully clung to his arms.

She was much more beautiful in person that he could remember. He had seen her months earlier, in the form of a photograph lost between the mountains of documents on the desk of his sergeant and, just a few days before the revolt, the same image was delivered directly into his hands.

_''Look for her.'' _Ymir ordered, showing that smug smirk of a sly fox stalking a new prey. _''Capture her.'' _He gave no explanation, he didn't even bother giving any other details, he just smiled. _''And bring her to me.'' _

A simple order like any other. No order can be denied.

But it wasn't until that moment, where that blonde with sky blue eyes that seemed more like a child than a woman faced a whole small army to save one life, when he felt that the mere physical attraction became something more; he always saw women as weak or scared creatures (With the exception of Annie, whom he considers more of a male companion than a woman), but the fact of finding one who courageously fought in enemy territory... It left him speechless.

But, before he could do or say anything, Ymir had her between his claws.

Even now, he knows that those invisible claws surround her.

_''She's mine, you bastard.'' _The sergeant had made clear when he chased him, at gunpoint, away from the room where the wound of the goddess was being taken care of. _''If you don't keep your dirty hands away from her you'll be next.''_

And he did. He kept his distance from her completely, abandoning her to her fate in a dark cell she didn't deserve.

_Does that make me a monster? _He stares at the horizon with a lost look. _Marcel..._

''It's there.'' Christa speaks up with a surprisingly enthusiastic voice for the situation she's in, pointing to one of the many houses; the street, supernaturally empty, seems to stretch out as the car picks up speed. ''Sasha's house! It's Sasha's house!''

Her eyes sparkle as if they were a pair of beautiful sapphires shining in the sunlight, making him laugh softly for thinking up such a stupidly cheesy analogy; is this what it feels like returning to where you belong?

For a brief moment, while he observes that beautiful smile furrowing her face, he's confident that he made the right decision.

Beyond what it means betraying the trust of his inseparable companions; beyond the irrational hatred that the death of his friend had sown in his heart; beyond the innocent blood that soaks his hands; for once in his life he feels that he made the right decision, not as a warrior or as a Nazi, but as Reiner Braun.

That is until they found the tragedy more ahead.

''No.'' Christa murmurs softly, trying to process the information that the broken windows and the remains of ash provide them with. ''No!''

Reiner, despite his years of experience in military training, can hardly notice the moment the blonde desperately leaves the interior of the vehicle.

''What the hell do you think you're doing?'' He shouts as he watches her run towards the charred remains of what was once a home, he descends from the Mercedes with enough speed to intercept her a few meters from the entrance, holding her by the waist to stop her march. ''You'll only get yourself killed!''

Sad. Pitiful. He has no other word to describe the pain in the expression or in the uncontrollable sobs that envelop Renz as she falls to her knees. He crouches next to her, stroking her back as gently as he knows.

''Sasha.'' She cries with broken voice. ''Not her... There was no reason...''

Reiner's hands tremble confusedly on the back of the goddess, thinking up something to do or to say in those moments where what one wants most is to be alone.

Is this what it feels like to lose a loved one? Probably, he experienced it himself when Marcel died.

It's difficult to explain or describe the time they spent there; embracing in the middle of the dust of recent ruins. How long has it been since she began crying until the moment her tears seemed unable to flow again? An hour? Two? Three?

What matters is that the sunlight, as well as Reiner's time, was running out.

_Annie. _Is all he can think of in this desperate situation. _Annie can hide her._

He immediately rises the girl to her feet. He grabs one of her wrists with the intention to make his way back to the Mercedes and, from there, back to the concentration camp again.

But his surprise is big when he realizes that however he tries, Christa, with swollen eyes from crying too much, doesn't move an inch.

''I'll stay.'' The blonde mutters with incredible determination. Reiner, who just saw his heart break, can hardly believe the radical change she has gone through.

It's like that one time, when she decided to steal his gun long ago.

''Have you gone mad?'' He asks as he grabs her shoulders firmly, letting their blue eyes meet in a fierce contest of determination. ''You'll die if you stay here!''

''I will not die.'' That's all. Braun growls in frustration.

''Your friend isn't here!'' He shakes her violently, angrily confronting the gaze holding hers. ''She's possibly dead!''

''We don't know that!''

''The house is in ruins, damn it!'' He pants, the lack of air causes him vertigo. ''No one could live here... no one will come for you...''

''Ymir.'' She answers right away, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; the mighty soldier feels as if something inside him shatters to thousands of pieces. ''He'll find me.''

''You're forgetting you're running away from him?!'' He corners her against the nearest wall, knocking down the last intact picture frame that rested on the wall covered with soot; he doesn't mind the proximity of their bodies, he only cares about relieving his anger. ''What did you come here for then?! Don't you want to be free?!'' He can't control himself any longer, he allows himself to scream his lungs out.

''You're hurting me...''

''Will you allow that bastard to use you until you're no longer of use to him?! Until he kills you?!''

''That's right!'' Silence. Nothing but silence in a room plundered by time, fire and man. ''It was a mistake to come here.'' Reiner backs away slowly, more surprised than he had ever been before. ''Everything he did was to protect me... I... I should have never distrusted him!''

Then, just as that phrase ends up being announced, he uses the only resource he considers viable under such unfavorable circumstances: Reiner Braun catches her lips abruptly in a one-sided touch, in which the man struggles to convey everything that his pride doesn't allow him to express with words.

_Look at me. _He shouts internally. _Look only at me just this once, damn it!_

But, despite his best efforts, Christa remains motionless, eyes open and her arms at her sides; as much as the blonde man decides to bite her lips or to touch (Subtle or blatantly) any part of her skin, she merely observes the infinite just like a man who's been sentenced to death.

''Come with me.'' He mutters right after he breaks contact, feeling how Renz' expression never changes.

''I'm sorry.'' She caresses the face of the man, giving him a fraternal peck on the cheek, with all the emotion she can muster at the time. ''There's nothing you can do.''

''Nothing?'' He asks with some hope left, moving a bit closer to her.

''No, there's nothing.'' Only now, in the midst of a painful and indisputable defeat, kissing the delicate lips that correspond him reluctantly, he confirms the reality that has arisen since the moment of their immediate flight: Christa will always be on Ymir's side, no matter what.

* * *

She looks up at the sky to unnecessarily confirm which clarifies the obvious; it's dark, it got dark so fast she could hardly notice it.

_I have to hurry._

Even with the dark reigning her trip, the place she's heading to is simply recognizable and, if not, could always be found by the insufferable smell of old ashes.

The light of the full moon, shining as bright as possible, allows her to find the pair of black shoe prints, product of the soot, crossing the threshold of the abandoned house.

_There's somebody here. _She knows there's somebody there, somewhere, it's as if she could smell it like a hunting dog would do.

She grabs a small rock, in case whatever is awaiting her inside defies her most common expectations before opening the door wide open.

But, despite her backup plan, the rock falls back to the ground as the little bundle emerges from the darkness to cling to her chest in a hug full of emotion.

''I knew you'd come back.'' She listens carefully to that familiar voice, to then focus her attention on the petite blonde girl who hugs her fondly.

She smiles broadly, and returns the gesture.

''I'm back.''


End file.
